The dead clean-up team, Johnlock
by They Call Me Mrs. Holmes
Summary: John loses his gun... and finds some dead bodies... A murder case, my first one, hope you like it. Mrs. H X
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, Sherlock! Where is the lanky idiot?" cursed John. He shuffled around in their bedroom searching for his something lost. Sherlock bounded into the room, and scowled.

"I'm not lanky, John. Just taller than you," he replied with a small smile. John huffed and continued to search for it, flinging clothes all over the room.

"I can't find it Sherlock, where is it?"

"What, John? Whereas I may be good at deducing details, I am not a mind reader," he said sarcastically.

"My gun, Sherlock. I can't find my gun," he said, not in the mood for Sherlock's games.

Sherlock sighed and picked up his phone, dialling a number quickly, "Lestrade?" he asked. John spun around and looked curiously at Sherlock. The detective placed the phone against his chest and whispered, "You may have left it at the crime scene yesterday, I need to know if it's still closed off." John nodded.

"Sherlock?" asked a slow and very English voice. Sherlock's face contorted in disgust, and held up the phone to his ear.

"Mycroft, what are you doing answering Graham's phone?" spat Sherlock.

"His name is Gregory. It is the name he was given, if you could possibly go to the effort of using it properly?" he replied.

"Whatever, put _Lestrade _on the line," he said. There was the sound of muffled voices and shuffling, when Lestrade answered the phone.

"Sherlock? What's up mate?"

Sherlock ignored the question, "Why did Mycroft answer your phone?"

Lestrade sighed, "Sherlock I think you know why…." He said quietly. Again, Sherlock's face twisted at the mere thought of Mycroft and Lestrade, together. Sherlock new that Lestrade had left his wife a year ago, now that his children were old enough to understand.

John stood there, waiting, tapping his foot impatiently. Sherlock smiled in apology and got back to the phone call.

"Is the crime scene still closed Lestrade?"

"Yeah, mate. Still cleaning up, nasty murder that one. Why?"

"John believes he may have left something there, we need access." He stated.

"Well, I'm pretty sure you're well know out there. I guess they will let you onto the scene, all evidence has been removed after you solved it, it's just a clean-up now."

"Good, good bye," said Sherlock and he hung up.

"That was very rude, Sherlock. You shouldn't have done that."

"I got us onto the crime scene didn't I? Don't complain, grab your coat lets go."

John sighed and followed after Sherlock, who appeared to be in a rush. Sherlock's phone dinged, as he left the apartment. He looked at it as found it was a text from his brother.

_Hello, _

_Gregory and I would like you to invite you to dinner tonight. I will be sending a car to pick the two of you up, see you at seven._

_-Mycroft ._

Sherlock put the phone back in his pocket and called as he walked down the stairs and out the front door. He waited for John, before hailing down a taxi. He opened the door, and slide across the seat. John huffed as he got into the back of the taxi.

"What's wrong with you? You practically flew out the flat!" cried John.

"Nothing, I just don't want to be out all day, I would like to be at home, with you," he said and grasped John's hand. His phone dinged and Sherlock said, "Don't answer it!"

John reached into his pocket and got out his phone,

_Hello John, _

_I have messaged Sherlock however typically he has ignored it. Gregory and I would like to invite the two of you to dinner tonight; I will send a car for seven. _

_-Mycroft. _

"I told you not to answer it," sighed Sherlock.

"We're going, Sherlock. It will be nice," he said, whilst typed out a reply.

_Would love to, any sort of dress code? _

"Nice? Such as tedious word, and it will not be _nice_. Its dinner with my brother and his, _friend._"

"Friend? You know what he is, do you consider me just your friend?" asked John, warningly.

"My best friend, but you're also much more than that," kissed Sherlock. "You know what I mean, I just don't want to go."

"Tough, we're going, it will be nice to go out for dinner for once, instead of the usual take-away." John's phone binged again.

_Hello, _

_We will be dining somewhere pleasant, please attend suited. Gregory says he will see you there, and that he hopes you find what you're looking for._

_-Mycroft. _

"Suits, we need to wear suits," sighed John. "I hate suits."

Sherlock smiled, not only did he like to wear suits, but John always looked especially appealing in a suit. Maybe tonight wouldn't be as bad as he originally thought.

"Why are you smiling? Changed your mind about tonight have you?" asked John.

"Mmmm… tonight sounds a bit better…" he whispered in Johns ear, and kissed him on his cheek.

John smiled, and typed out a reply.

_Okay, will see you at seven. _

John leant in and kissed Sherlock this time, more slowly and deeply. The taxi driver coughed and said "Excuse me," the pair broke apart. "We're here. That'll be £30 please mate."

Sherlock jumped out of the taxi and started towards the crime scene. "I'll pay then shall I?" called John. "He always does this," he murmured under his breath. He paid the taxi driver and jumped out of the car, starting to walk after Sherlock.

"John! Call Lestrade now!"

John hurried up and ran to Sherlock, fearing the worry in his voice. Once he turned the corner, he stopped. "Jesus Christ. What happened?" He picked up his phone and called Lestrade.

"Lestrade, you need to get over to the crime scene, now. There's been another murder. Okay, see you."

He put down the phone and said, "He's on his way, do you have any idea about what happened?"

As before Sherlock and John, lay the clean-up team. Lying in their own pool of blood, all five people.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade got out of the squad car flanked by several members of the forensic team and Sgt Donovan. He started his way around the corner of the old warehouse toward the new crime scene.

"Boys, have you touched anything?" Lestrade called out.

"Of course not, Lestrade. I may have observed but I did not touch anything on the crime scene, as always." Sherlock said.

Lestrade nodded, "Donovan, set someone up to corner this thing off, we need to get started immediately." Donovan nodded and set about yelling at her crew to get started. "Sherlock, what've you got for us mate?"

"Five murders, all killed by the same man, with the same gun," he said with a smile.

"Man? What makes you think it's a man?"

"Come on Lestrade, even you can do this. Five people, it's very unlikely that a woman could over throw five people. It will most likely be a very strong man."

"Did you know them?" asked John softly.

"No, not really. They just send out the team, someone else organises that. Sally did though," Lestrade said.

"Shall I continue?" Sherlock asked impatiently. "The bullet wounds are too big to be a .22 calibre, yet too small to be a .45 calibre, therefore we're looking for a .357 calibre or a 9mm. However your forensic team will be able to tell you more details, my guess is a 9mm. Time of death- around last night, this morning. No security cameras so that's all for now," he said in a rush.

Lestrade was pinching the bridge of his nose and sighed. "This isn't good. Donovan, could you get a team in to take pictures please!" he turned back to the men stood in front of him. "Do you have any leads?"

"Most importantly, it's not the same murderer as the previous case. The similarities may be very unique, however not the same."

"How can you tell?"

"All of the bodies have a small, gash across the throat. This was not the cause of death but rather something that occurred once the victims were dead."

Again Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose. Donovan walked up to him with a pack of paracetamol, and handed them to the DI. He smiled and broke two off and took them dry. "Thanks, Donovan. Are you okay?" he asked quietly. She nodded and walked away, the beginning of tears in her eyes. "Boys, what are you going to do?"

"We will return back to the flat, looking into the gashes they have on they're necks. I have already taken pictures on my phone, I will text you when I have anything," he said and walked away. John smiled apologetically at him and hurried after his partner, who had already seemed to have hailed a taxi.

"Thank you," said John.

"For what? I merely observed."

"For being nice, and not harsh on Donovan. She knew the team, so it was nice that you weren't rough on her," he said and held Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock huffed; he just thought that Donovan wouldn't be of any use at this precise moment. They got into the taxi and sat down, still holding hands.

"So my gun wasn't there," sighed John.

"No, we will look better once we get back to the flat, and then tonight we will research it all some more."

"Sherlock, tonight we're going to dinner. Remember? I was talking to Lestrade about it when you were examining the bodies, didn't you hear?"

"No, it wasn't important."

John sighed as they travelled home.


	3. Chapter 3

**A longer one, hope you enjoy it! all reviews welcome! **

Sherlock got out of the taxi and headed to the front door, leaving John to pay the taxi again. He followed his partner to the door and up the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson! We're back!" called John.

Mrs. Hudson hurried out of the down stairs kitchen and called up the boys "I'll make some tea!"

Sherlock plumped down onto his chair and pulled his feet up so his knees touched his chin. John sat down opposite him and sighed, knowing that any moment now Sherlock would leave for his Mind Palace.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" whispered Sherlock to himself.

"Excuse me? What is?" asked John.

"FIVE murders John! Five! This is better than Christmas! It's absolutely brilliant!"

"Er, Sherlock. Five people have died, ordinary people wouldn't be so happy about that."

"I'm not ordinary, John"

John agreed with him there. Mrs. Hudson walked up the stairs and placed a tray of tea and custard creams on the table. She looked at Sherlock and asked, "Oh, you look awfully happy dear, been any murders?" she asked sweetly.

"Five!"

"Five?"

"Exactly! Absolutely brilliant!" beamed Sherlock. She tutted and headed back down stairs. Sherlock leant forward and picked up his mug of tea, and took a sip. "And the best thing, we have all night and all day tomorrow to research the throat slitting! I'm going to get started," he said eagerly. He leapt up and picked up his laptop, before John coughed loudly causing Sherlock to look at him inquisitively.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but you can't research all night. Its five o'clock already, Mycroft's car will be picking us up at seven. We will need to start getting ready soon," he said.

Sighed moaned loudly, and dragged himself away from his laptop and back onto the chair. "Do we have to go?" he asked John.

John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock sounded like a child, who was being forced to go to the shops with his parent. He sighed and got off his chair to kiss Sherlock gently on the lips. Sherlock straightened up and leant into the kiss, enjoying John's bribe. John held Sherlock's hands as he walked with him into their bedroom. He shut the door behind him and Sherlock lay back onto the bed, expecting John to follow. However, John stood there, not following him. Sherlock cocked his head to the side and watched John walk over to his wardrobe, and pick rifle through all of his suits. John tilted his head to a side and picked out his favourite suit, and purple shirt. He through them at Sherlock, who was still propped up on the bed, confused. Once he had released what had happened, Sherlock sat up and frowned.

"You tricked me," he accused John.

"You need to get ready, iron your suit, and knowing you that will take at least an hour."

"You tricked me," Sherlock whined again. "You've never done that before!"

John walked over to Sherlock and kissed him on his lips. "'m sorry," he mumbled against his lips. "But who knows, we'll have to see how well you behave tonight at dinner."

"I'm not a child, John," he replied with a smile. "But okay, what's the time?"

"Twenty past five," john said, looking at his watch. He got up, despite Sherlock's complaints and looked through his wardrobe. He sighed, he hated suits, what would he wear? Sherlock, noticing John's mini dilemma, looked through John's wardrobe and picked out his favourite suit, there were only three, but this one made John look incredibly appealing. John sighed, before placing the suit on his bed before leaving to get the iron.

…..

One hour and thirty minutes later, John and Sherlock stood in the room, adjusting their suits in the mirror. John looked at Sherlock and bit his lip, he looked fine, as usual, and the suit complemented Sherlock beautifully. His hair was uncombed, causing it to be curled and soft. But what drew John's eyes to his partner was his chest. His purple shit was tight but too much, showing off his strong muscles. Further down, his trousers were well fitted around his rear, and his shoes were well kept. Every time he moved, his shirt displayed his muscles and chest, and John tried to resist the feeling of kissing him on every single muscle. Damn. His pale skin was a large contrast to the black of the suit, and even more so compared to his luscious pink, plump lips.

Sherlock too, had been assessing John's appearance. John's hair was combed; however John kept touching it in an attempt to change it. John wore a crisp white shirt, tucked into his black trousers. Unlike Sherlock, he was already wearing his suit jacket, which hung off his broad shoulders. He kept fiddling with, in attempt to make himself more comfortable. Despite his small frame, John was also displaying his muscles. Sherlock took note that he needed to keep John running after criminals, that way he would always look good in a suit. The suit had transformed John from a comfortable old man, to a God. His tanned skin complemented the burgundy tie he wore.

There was a knock at the door, causing the two to jump out of their daze, staring at one another. Sherlock bent down to pick up his suit jacket, John couldn't help but stare at his bum, and it was lovely. Sherlock opened the door to reveal Mrs. Hudson standing there. She glanced at her two boys and beamed with pride. "Look at the two of you! Fantastic!" she attempted to pinch Sherlock's cheek but he ducked to avoid her. "There's a man down stairs for you, with a car. Going out are you?"

"Yes, please don't wait up," said Sherlock as he glided down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson kissed John on the cheek as he followed Sherlock down stairs, and out into the car. Sherlock let John slide in first, and followed after. The drive to the restaurant was short, and with a matter of few minutes they were walking in.

The soft sound of a piano playing welcomed the men as they entered, followed by the sight of red and white décor. The room was dark, lighted only by the low hanging chandeliers between every other table. Very classy, very Mycroft. Sherlock waltzed over to the lady at the front and checked for his name.

"Holmes, table for four?"

"Yes, sir. Right this way," she said, gesturing for the men to follow her.

"No need, I see them," said Sherlock, taking John's hand and walking to the table at the back, occupied by his brother and Lestrade. Oblivious to the pleasant gasps and looks heading Sherlock and John's way, the men stood by the table, waiting for Mycroft and Lestrade to notice them.

Mycroft was the first to notice the newcomers, who quickly ended the discussion and stood up, welcoming his brother and John. "Please, do sit," his English accent asked.

The two pulled out the chair and sat down, drinking their glasses of water, already for them.

"Anything on the murders, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"No, not yet. I haven't really had time to think," said Sherlock. Lestrade nodded, "What was it you were looking for?"

"My gun, I don't suppose you've seen it?" asked John.

"No, sorry mate. Mycroft?"

"Sadly, no," said Sherlock's brother. At that precise moment, Lestrade's phone started to ring. He quickly apologised and stood up to take it. He walked away from the table, toward the toilets, where he answered. Sherlock watched after him, curious to see if there was any more details about the murder. Lestrade's call was short, he nodded and hung up, his face white and his hands shaking.

"Gregory, what's wrong?" asked a concerned Mycroft.

"We've found the murder weapon," ignored Lestrade.

"Was I right?" asked Sherlock. "It's quite a common gun."

"John, the bullet wounds match your gun, which was found in the bins, a quarter of a mile away. I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in."


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm sorry I don't think it's very good. I literally just did this and I am very tired. so tired. again all reviews welcome! This one is for my friend Lockie, sorry about the pencil case. I really do love you! :) **

"WHAT?" roared Sherlock. He stood up immediately, causing his chair to fly backwards. John was still sat down, his mouth opening and closing, giving him the impression of a goldfish. Mycroft rubbed his forehead, whilst taking out his phone.

"I'll call you a lawyer," he sighed. He got up and left the table, standing where Lestrade once stood.

"He won't need one Mycroft, John is innocent." He emphasised the last words towards Lestrade.

"I'm sorry, John. I know you wouldn't do something like this, but I have to take you in. Technically speaking, I should be arresting you on suspicion of the murder, but if you come willingly, we can avoid any problems with the press."

"No, He's not going. There's no need." Said Sherlock firmly.

John stood up and placed a hand on Sherlock's arm, "Sherlock, come one. We both know I didn't do it, so there's no problem. I'll go in and it'll all be sorted soon."

Sherlock looked pleadingly into John's eyes and frowned, before turning to Lestrade and saying stubbornly, "I'm coming with him, I don't care, I go where he goes."

Lestrade gave him a nervous smile and started to call someone, at the same time Mycroft came back to the table. "I've made a few calls, and a lawyer is on their way. She's one of the best in the country," he said.

"Thank you, Mycroft. It means a lot." Mycroft smiled sadly. "Sorry about the dinner."

"Not a problem, we can always reschedule."

Lestrade walked back over to the table, "Can you come with me please? A squad car is waiting outside," he said solemnly. John took Sherlock's hand and walked with him outside the restaurant and to the car parked out the front. Lestrade opened the door, John got in, followed by Sherlock, still holding hands. Through the window, Sherlock saw Lestrade kiss Mycroft on the cheek, and Mycroft blushed. Usually, Sherlock would've found that repulsive, however he was too worried about John. He turned his attention back to the man who was sitting next to him, staring blankly at the seat in front of him.

"What are we going to do?" whispered John, as Lestrade got back into the car.

"We're going to sort this out, and be back at Baker Street in no time, don't worry," Sherlock said. He couldn't stop his voice from shaking, he was scared. He squeezed John's hand in an attempt to make him smile, but it didn't work.

"Okay, we'll get to the station, interview you, your lawyer should be there, Mycroft will be there soon. No need to panic."

The ride to the station was short, despite that it felt like it took ages. As they exited the police car, they quickly hurried into the building and made their way to the interrogation room. Lestrade held the door open for John, but blocked Sherlock's entrance with his arm.

"I'm sorry, mate. But you can't go in, we're not questioning you. You can watch through the glass, but that's all sorry." Sherlock looked desperately past Lestrade to John, who was sat down behind the table. John smiled, and nodded, mustering up all his courage. He was a soldier, after all. Sherlock followed Lestrade into the room behind.

"Wait here; I'll be the one asking the questions. I know he didn't do it, but I have to do my job." He said sympathetically. He left the room and within a matter of seconds, he was sat across from John and a lawyer that Mycroft had provided. Inside the room with Sherlock, were Donovan and Mycroft. They all looked nervously at the people in the room.

Lestrade pressed the record button on the recorder, "John Watson, 23rd February, 7:36 pm. John, can you tell me where you were on the night of the 22nd of February, between the time of 12:35-7:00 am?"

John swallowed, "I was at my flat, with Sherlock."

"So you weren't at the old Walker's Bakery warehouse?"

"No." he said flatly.

"Can you tell me why you were at the crime scene earlier this morning?"

"I had returned to search for my gun," he replied.

"So you didn't return to the crime scene to pick up your gun, after killing all five people?" demanded Lestrade. He placed down on the table the forensic pictures of the murders. John had seen them already, but he still winced at the sight. His lawyer whispered something in his ear and John nodded.

"I returned to search for my gun, which I thought I might have left at the crime scene the day before, after helping to solve the murder previously."

"A registered gun?"

"Yes, a registered gun."

"And do you have any witnesses to confirm your alibi?"

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes. He was with me the whole time," said John.

Lestrade breathed in deeply, regretting what he was about to say next, "An ex-drug addict?"

John and Sherlock winced, "Yes. He can confirm my whereabouts."

Lestrade sighed, "John, you have to work with me here. Imagine how this looks from my point of view, your gun is the murder weapon found not far from the crime scene, where _you_ and your partner discovered the bodies."

John's lawyer whispered something in his ear, and John nodded again. Not replying. Lestrade sighed and left the room, where he was greeted by Sherlock, Donovan and Mycroft.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, you know how this looks. We're going to have to keep him in overnight," confessed Lestrade.

As he said that, John was escorted by a police officer out of the room, and towards the group, where he was about to say his goodbyes.

"Surely I can provide an alibi?" Sherlock asked.

"You? An alibi? It would be worth less than mud, a drug user," spat Anderson, who had appeared from around the corner. John, finally having enough, using both of his hand-cuffed hands, hit Anderson on the nose. Blood immediately spurted out from his face, and Anderson swore loudly. The police officer, who was meant to be minding John, realised what happened and grabbed John, before pulling him away.

"He's not a drug user!" spat John.

Sherlock smiled with gratitude, whilst Anderson lay on the floor, cupping his broken nose. Mycroft had stepped back with a disgusted look on his face, who gestured for Lestrade and Sherlock to follow him. Donovan had exited the room and was searching for the first aid kit.

Mycroft lead the way back into the now empty room where he was previously watching the interrogation.

"He shouldn't have done that," sighed Lestrade. Rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Anderson or John?" asked Sherlock.

"Both, Anderson was way out of line, and so was John. This won't help his case."

"How does it look?" asked Sherlock.

Lestrade sighed, "I'm sorry. But it's not good. Unless we find something, anything, he may convicted."


	5. Chapter 5

I think this chapter may be a bit better.

Thanks for the review, FlamyAngelwings. Who also guessed what would happen in chapter five, Hopefully this is a bit more exciting.

* * *

Sherlock turned his back on the men and kicked one of the chairs, frustration coursing through his veins. He turned to Mycroft, "I need one of your cigarettes, well, more than one. Where are they?"

"I'm sorry, brother dear, but John has previously informed me to make sure you don't smoke."

Sherlock strode up to Mycroft and looked him directly in the eyes "I think John has more important things to worry about right now," he hissed.

"Yes, and so do you, Sherlock. No cigarettes, or anything else for that matter," said Lestrade.

"If we are off that topic, I believe I may be able to assist John," offered Mycroft.

"What, why, how, tell me," demanded Sherlock.

"As you know, there are certain, security measures in your flat," started Mycroft.

"Cameras…" interrupted Sherlock.

"Cameras, you have security cameras in his house?" asked a shocked Lestrade.

"Not as such," said Mycroft.

"Yes, he does. Wait, that's perfect! That can provide an alibi for John!"

"That is was I was going to say," said Mycroft slowly.

"Well why are you not on the phone now? You are _not_ helping John by standing here!" yelled Sherlock.

Mycroft looked a bit taken-aback, yet he left the room with his phone in his hands. Sherlock started to pace the room frantically, desperate for any news. Lestrade sat down and looked up at the whirlwind of a man.

"Sherlock, relax. If your brother can get this footage then John is in the clear, he'll be back on the case and home in no time. Why _does_ he have security cameras in your apartment?"

"For security reasons, _obviously. _I thought it fairly self-explanatory, it is rather helpful when a crisis like this occurs," Sherlock explained. He took off his suit jacket and threw it next to Lestrade.

"I need a cigarette," asked Sherlock. Lestrade reached into his pocket to give him his pack.

"Gregory, don't give him one," said Mycroft as he waltzed into the room. "I've made a few phone calls and they're reviewing it as we speak. So all will be fine, now we just wait."

….

"Here it is, Sir." Said a man clad in black. He suit was crisp and his black glasses made it difficult for any eye contact, despite the fact it was 10:30 pm. His black hair was combed back and his pale skin was a large contrast to his dark pin striped suit.

"Helson," said Mycroft as he took the DVD from the man's outstretched palms. The stranger, Helson, nodded before leaving the room. Mycroft gave the DVD to Lestrade who put it into the DVD player and stepped back to give a better look on the small TV situated in the corner of the room. Donovan walked in and stood next to the DI, curious as to what they were watching.

After a few seconds of a black screen, an image in black and white popped up onto the small box. It was of Sherlock and John, sat in their chairs talking to each other. The time in the corner read 11:30 pm, the team new that they would have to watch all the footage until past 7:00 am, meaning they would be in for a long night. A couple of minutes later, everyone watched as John stood up to take Sherlock's hand, and they both walked down the corridor towards the bedroom. The security camera flicked to another angle in the apartment, a perfect view of Sherlock kissing John as they walked in through the bedroom. Everyone in the room looked at Sherlock who blushed and looked down at the floor. Donovan was a bit disgusted at the idea of the two of them in there.

…

12:30 am, and nothing had happened; the camera shots kept flicking between a view of the kitchen, a shot of the front door, and a view of the corridor. Sherlock was grateful that there wasn't any camera's in his bedroom. The shots gave a perfect alibi; they covered all possible exits for John to leave, besides the window in Sherlock's room. Yet, Lestrade confirmed that they would rule that one out, as an ex-army solider with a bad shoulder and a limp couldn't possibly jump out of a window and land undamaged, let alone climb back up on his return.

…..

2:00 am, and still nothing had happened, Sherlock new that nothing would yet he was still bored. Lestrade and Sherlock had vacated the only seats in the room, leaving Mycroft to stand and Donovan to sit on the table. Sherlock yawned, his eyes beginning to droop, feeling as heavy as lead. Donovan was resting against the wall behind the table, already asleep, silently. Mycroft looked tired, yet his eyes remained unfixed off the screen, whereas Lestrade was looking desperately around the room, trying to entertain himself. Suddenly, a movement on the screen caught everyone's attention.

"Donovan, wake up!" called Lestrade. She woke up with a snore and rubbed her dreary eyes, she too looked at the TV, to see John exit the room in his dressing gown, and thankfully he still wore his pyjama bottoms. The footage flicked to a better angle of the man walking into the kitchen, everyone sat with bated breath. But John only poured himself a glass of milk, whilst rubbing his forehead. Sherlock was the only one who knew that he had suffered a nightmare; usually he doesn't get them when Sherlock is with him, but this one was particularly traumatic. John put the empty glass in the sink and walked back to the room, and shut the door. Lestrade let out a deep breath he had been holding in, whilst Donovan snorted at the excitement and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes.

…

5:00 am. The only ones awake were Sherlock and Lestrade, Mycroft had left the room to talk to a man in a dark suit, someone similar to Helson. _Do all his men look the same? _thought Sherlock. He shook his head and focused his attention back on the screen. He sighed and thought of John, sat alone in his cell. He wondered whether he was able to sleep, and if so, would it be haunted with memories of the past. Sherlock yearned to be with John, to lie next to him and feel his warmth, to kiss him on his lips and grin, to be alone with John back at Baker Street.

Lestrade was nursing a cup of coffee he had bought from one of the machines outside, it tasted rancid yet his sleep deprived body would take anything right now. He drank it and scowled as the hot liquid came in contact with his taste-buds, it wouldn't be much longer before he could go back home.

…..

8:am, and the DVD ended. Lestrade stretched and got off his chair, before placing the DVD in an evidence bag. He walked over to Donovan and shook her sleeping body lightly; she woke up with a jump and accepted Lestrade's hand to help her off the table.

"That's it, over," yawned Lestrade. Donovan nodded and left without a word, despite the fact that she would usually be in work right now, Lestrade said she can return at 12:00 unless she is desperately needed.

Sherlock got off his chair and turned to Lestrade, "When can John be let out?" demanded a sleepy Sherlock. The lack of sleep made him more rude than usual.

"Now, I'll send someone to go get him," said Lestrade, who left to inform the officer.

"You're welcome," said Mycroft, who didn't sound tried at all.

Sherlock turned to his brother and nodded, he knew that without the footage John may have been convicted, but he wasn't going to admit that out loud. Lestrade walked back in and within minutes a fatigued John entered. Sherlock ran to his partner and kissed him long and hard on the lips; he pulled back and looked over John to see if he was okay.

"Easy, Sherlock. I'm fine, don't worry," said John. The bags under his eyes showed that like the others, John hadn't slept at all that night.

"It's over, you're free, no need to worry," said Sherlock.

"Actually," inputted Mycroft. "There are still five bodies in the morgue and a killer on the loose."

"That doesn't concern us right now, we're going home," scowled Sherlock. He picked up his suit jacket rom the chair and took John's hand when a young officer ran into the room and pushed past Sherlock and John.

"Sir! Sir! We've got a note!" cried the officer. She placed the note inside the evidence bag onto the table, where it was immediately surrounded by the men.

**_Five more tonight. _**

**_A. _**

"Blood," whispered Sherlock.

"Blood," said Mycroft a millisecond later. He frowned at his younger brother, cursing the fact that he knew first.

"Blood? A letter in blood?" asked Lestrade.

"Well it's hardly a letter, is it?" said Sherlock. "Three words don't count as a letter."

"Shut up, Sherlock," warned Lestrade.

"Five more tonight," repeated John, ignoring the squabble around him.

"Five more murders," said Sherlock.


	6. Chapter 6

**I have changed this again, the ending I thought was crap. and it kept nagging me to change it, I don't like sappy and I don't like Johnlock being sappy. so I hope you like this new chapter better. thanks! **

**So, this one is a bit different. hope you like it, all reviews wanted and welcome. Enjoy!**

"Could you call Sgt Donovan, please?" Lestrade asked the female officer. "Tell her I'm sorry but she needs to come back in." the officer nodded and hurried out of the room.

"Five more murders, the same man. The same number of victims, the same location?" Sherlock pondered out loud.

"Damn it, what's the connection?" demanded Lestrade.

"We won't be able to tell until we have the next victims. So far, all five are related to the police force. All five know each other; all five are around the same age. But we won't really know what the connection is until the next dead. So we wait."

"We _wait?_"

"Yes, Lestrade. I don't see any members of the yard have an idea? There are no leads, no finger prints, and no connections. Not until we have the next murders. We don't know who to protect, so we wait."

"You're just going to allow five people to die? You don't even care?" John asked shocked.

"And what do you suppose we do, John? What's your _brilliant_ idea? Will caring help them? Will caring save their lives? This man is obviously a professional so, no. No we are not going to do anything," Sherlock snapped. The lack of sleep was taking over Sherlock's behaviour. John looked even more shocked than before, giving the fact that they spent a whole night away from each other, something they haven't done in years, he was pretty hurt. John wasn't the only one who was shocked, Lestrade was speechless too. Mycroft, on the other hand, expected it of his brother and therefore didn't care.

"I have to agree with my brother, he is right. Caring will not help, and there is no one we can protect if we don't know who the victims are. Our only hope is to see if John and his maniac can spot the connection before the murders."

"Exactly! It seems only Mycroft and I are making sense right now. John, let's go, we have work to do. Gavin, I will text you when I have details."

"Greg, its _Greg!_"he said.

Sherlock ignored him and walked out of the room, despite John still being hurt, he followed his partner and waited for a taxi to come by.

"That, was unbelievable."

"You think so? It's fairly simple," started Sherlock.

"No Sherlock! It's bad! You can be so heartless sometimes!" yelled John. Sherlock took a step back from John, just as a taxi appeared. John opened the taxi door and got it, slamming it immediately after. He told the driver his destination before driving away.

**_Had John just done that? Had John just left him alone? Outside the police station? And what was his meltdown about, why was he annoyed at me? _**Sherlock thought. **_This is ridiculous, we need to talk. _**

He got out his phone to text John .

_We need to talk. Now._

_-SH. _

There, that should do it, hopefully John would apologise and they could get back to solving the murder. Sherlock hailed another taxi and headed back to Baker Street. Once he had arrived, he stepped in to be immediately pounced on my Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, Sherlock! Thank the lord you're alright! Where have you been?" she hit him on his arm. "You didn't come home last night, so I thought you might have stayed out. And now, John just marched through the door. He looks very upset. Have you two had a bit of a domestic?"

"Shut up, Mrs. Hudson." Snapped Sherlock. He hurried up the stairs.

"I'll make some tea!" called up the landlady.

Sherlock stormed into the door to find the living room empty. He looked about the room and the bedrooms to find them all empty as well.

_On the roof. _

He had a text from John.

He sighed and headed back into his bedroom, opened the window and climbed up the fire escape to the roof. Sherlock jumped up and whizzed around, searching for his boyfriend. He found him, near the edge of the roof, looking across the city. Slowly, as if not to scare him, Sherlock made his way to John and stood behind him.

"I'm sorry. Whatever I've done, I'm sorry." Whispered Sherlock. John spun around at looked at him deadly into the eyes.

"_Whatever you've done?_"asked John. "That's the worst bit, you don't even know what you've done."

"Tell me."

"You're not even human!" yelled John. "You and Mycroft! So inhumane. It doesn't even bother you if five more people die, doesn't affect you! I have nightmares Sherlock, of all the deaths, all the people. And if it's not that it's the war! More dead bodies! More comrades lying in the sand! And when it's not either of them it's you! You Sherlock! You! I keep seeing you lying in a hospital bed, attached to a million machines! Or you lying in an alley way! Or covered in blood! Dying! And none of that bothers you! You don't _feel_ Sherlock!"

Sherlock stood still. "I never realised you felt all of that."

"Because you don't feel!"

"I do feel, John. But I don't feel for many others. My brother, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly. That's it. I would never admit it to them John.

So I'm sorry if I've disappointed you. I'm not a hero, don't try to make me into one, and don't think of me as one. There's nothing special about me. I don't care for others, I don't feel for them. Worrying won't help them. Yes I'm inhumane. I think logically, I think like someone who doesn't have feelings. My priorities are to solve the murder, not save the life. I'm just not capable of it.

But I love you John Watson. So again, I'm sorry if I'm not the man you want me to be, but this is who I am."

The two stood opposite each other, neither daring to move. Neither of them knew that about the other. They assessed each other, thinking.

In an instant, they both closed the distance between each other and were kissing the other. Their tongues battled against each other for dominance, tasting the other person. Relishing in the moment, wishing it could last forever. John's hands reached up and grabbed onto Sherlock's hair, whilst Sherlock's hands pulled John closer to him. Sherlock kissed John's neck, and his jawline, and John smiled. John lowered his hands and placed them onto the back of Sherlock.

"I love you, John Watson."

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."


	7. Chapter 7

**Hope your bet turned out okay, BSB and Lockie. I wont change this one, hopefully. I like it ;)**

**All reviews wanted and welcome! Enjoy!**

* * *

"We've still got a murderer to catch," whispered John.

"Mmmm…. But I've got you," mumbled Sherlock.

Sherlock was nestling against John's bare chest, his eyes half open and his lips in a soft smile. Sherlock and John's clothes lay scattered on the floor, and the duvet protected them from the cold. John watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, as he lay half asleep.

"I'm not a murderer," joked John.

Sherlock laughed, "I'd rather stay right here with you."

John faked a gasp, "You don't want to solve a murder? Who are you, and what have you done with my Sherlock?"

"Your Sherlock," he repeated with a smile.

"Of course," John said and kissed Sherlock on his head, feeling his soft brown hair. Sherlock's phone started to ring; he sighed and got out of bed to pick it up off the floor. John sat up slightly to admire his partners bum, and his strong, slender arms.

"Lestrade?" asked Sherlock answering his phone. The man replied. "Yes, I'm with John." The man spoke again. "What time is it?" A reply. "We'll be there by five."

"More?"

"Yes, five, again." They both got up and started to change.

They were at the crime scene within the hour, and were meeting Lestrade outside an abandoned factory.

"Alright?" he asked them.

"Fine. What've you got?" asked Sherlock, following Lestrade to the crime scene.

"Five women, all a similar age, all new each other, going for a night out by the looks of it."

"At this time of day?"

"I know, we don't know whether they were killed last night and brought here yet though." said Lestrade, finally reaching the crime scene. Five women wearing short dresses and high heels were lying on the floor next to each other. Like the previous murder, they were surrounded in a pool of blood, with a shot to the back of their heads and small gashes along the throats.

"The same murderer, definitely," said Sherlock. "Despite them all being a similar age, they're not the same age as yesterday's victims. They all live in London, but that's too vague. I need to examine them more in order to find the connection."

"No need," said Lestrade. "We know the connection."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

"It's Donovan. She knew all the victims."

John inhaled sharply and Sherlock raised both of his eyebrows. "Really? Donovan? Why would anyone target her?" asked John.

"Well…." Started Sherlock.

"Shut up," said Lestrade. "She's over there, taking a statement." He gestured to a van, where an officer and Donovan were. She was sat in the back of a van, wearing a bright orange blanket and sipping a glass of water.

"She's in shock, look, she's got a blanket," joked Sherlock. Lestrade smiled at the memory of The Study in Pink Case and walked over to a forensic team. "I'll examine the bodies and take pictures." Sherlock strutted around the bodies and mumbled to himself curiously. John, who was accustomed to Sherlock's mumbling, took note of what he said and watched his partner in awe. "Yes, they were killed yesterday night early morning and were moved here."

"Makes sense, five girls wouldn't be around here dressed like that in the day. They also ate dinner at a restaurant together. Two of them have the same sauce stains on the corner of their dresses and one of them has a mobile number written on the back of a restaurant card. It's poking out of her purse next to her. Probably a waiter gave it to her as she left. Call them and then you can get a better time of death," announced John.

Sherlock looked proudly at his partner, "Well done, John. I guess I've been rubbing off on you," said Sherlock. John snickered at the unintentional innuendo; Sherlock raised his eyebrow before understanding and giggling as well.

"Something funny?" asked Lestrade, smiling as he walked back over. "This is a crime scene you know."

"No, sorry. Just a private joke," said John.

"Yes," said Sherlock walking towards the men. "We have all we need; we'll be going now, to look into the throat slashing."

"I thought that was what you were doing last night!" yelled Lestrade.

"We were busy!" called back Sherlock as he and John laughed away.

…..

"So, the throat slitting?" asked John as he sat down into his chair, his laptop resting on his legs.

"Yes, quite a peculiar fashion. Sadly, I am not as educated on the matter compared to other subjects."

"Like the solar system….." whispered John.

"It was irrelevant! Stop bringing it up!" he said as he got his laptop and sat down at his desk. He quickly typed something into google and clicked on a website. "I knew it," he said to himself.

"Yes?"

"I remember an old case from when I was a child. Three people were killed on separate occasions, all shot in the back of their heads, yet their throat was slit. You may not remember it, it was all hushed up. Yet the killer was never found," he explained.

"Could it be the same man?"

"Possibly, I don't know. Judging from the pictures, possibly. The case wasn't so long ago that it could be the same man, yet why would he just stop for several years, only to start murdering again?"

"Maybe he became married, had kids, and settled down."

"And now?" asked Sherlock.

"He got bored. It happens, you should know," he mumbled the last words. "The point I'm trying to make is that he's human, he probably moved on in his life."

"He's a serial killer, John."

"Yes, but maybe it's not the same man."

"Well what are you doing?" asked Sherlock.

"I'm taking a different approach, I'm trying to figure out who would target Donovan and why."

"Yes, I see. Good luck with that," he said.

"You think you will find the murderer before me!" challenged John.

"No! Only that I believe by finding out the method of the deaths, you can find the murderer by knowledge of the man through his methods of killing."

"You think you will find the murderer before me," John repeated.

"Don't be childish, John."

"Sherlock…"

"Yes. I don't see how finding who would target Donovan will help solve the case. It's just what happens in detectives shows, and how long does it take them to find the murderer? This isn't a crime drama John. Surely Donovan has many acquaintances, many enemies and many people she knows. That is a far broader category to search compared to the method of the victim's deaths. Clearly the slashes on the throat are not a common technique found in all murder cases."

"Good luck with your method," said John.

"I don't need luck," whispered Sherlock.

"Oh, shut up," said John jokingly.

"I do intend to once this conversation is over. I have a murderer to catch."

"Not if I catch him first," teased John. Sherlock smiled and watched him take out his phone. "Lestrade, is there any way I could talk to Donovan please? It's for the case." Sherlock could hear quite mumbling on the other line. "Okay, thanks. Yeah, about six thirty would be fine. Thanks."

"Six thirty?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes, we've got a client."

"Two cases?" asked Sherlock. Then the information clicked, Donovan. "Donovan? Donovan is coming here? To our home? Donovan? Really?"

"Yes, it's the best way to see who would want to hurt her."

"Donovan? Here?"

"Yes, Sherlock. So be nice, in the past two days, ten people she knows have died…."

"Yes, and you dropped one of my mugs."

"You cannot compare that to the death of ten people."

"Hmmm…. Debatable."

John sighed and went back to his work.

…

A soft knock on the door awoke the men from their intense work. Sherlock moved from the desk to his chair, whilst John opened the door to reveal a puffy eyed Donovan and a concerned looking Mrs. Hudson.

"I let her up, I thought that was okay," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Yes, fine thanks," said John, dismissing the lady. She nodded and walked down stairs, Donovan sat down on the chair that had been placed in the middle of the room for her. She glanced around the mess that was a flat with a bored face. Most things were covered in a fine layer of dust, and if not, then some sort of chemical liquid. Books lay about the room, and papers were clustered in stacks throughout the flat. Test tubes and petri dishes lay on top of window sills and desks, some filled with mould, body parts and flakes. And all of them were not clean. She glanced behind her to stare at the face painted on the wall, and bullet holes due to Sherlock. Whereas she presumed this made the flat homey to the men, she found it all rather disturbing.

"I'm sorry, about what's happened," said John. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his partner's compassion.

"Yeah, me too," she said solemnly.

"Are you okay with us asking you some questions?" asked John.

"Yeah, fine."

"So, do you know why anyone would want to hurt you?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight! thank you for sticking with me so far, and sorry I couldn't upload it last night! Hop you enjoy this one, all reviews welcome!**

**I'm sorry, its INCREDIBLY long...**

* * *

Sally shrugged and looked around the room, she wasn't really in the mood for talking, she just wanted to go home and sleep. John, sensing her hostility, apologised and walked into the clutter that was the kitchen. He pulled together the makings of a cup of tea and two minutes later he was handing one to the woman sat in the living room.

"Here," said John. "So you don't know anyone who would want to intentionally harm you?"

"No, I mean, I've locked up a few people along the way," Sherlock raised his eyebrows sarcastically, causing John to kick his leg, a warning to behave. "But I don't think they would specifically target me."

"Ex-boyfriend?"

"No, not since… Not since, Rick."

"Rick?" asked John.

"Yeah, he was my last ex-boyfriend, from a serious relationship."

"And?" said Sherlock sarcastically.

Donovan glared at him and carried on talking to John, "He died, last year, drug overdose."

Sherlock leant forward in his seat, his hands in a steeple against his lips. "Died?"

"Yeah, saw him in the flat, with a needle in his arm. Besides him, I don't really have any family, maybe an Aunt in Scotland but no one else. He was all I had," she whispered the last words with tears in her eyes. Sherlock coughed and leapt up from his seat, causing Donovan to jump. She watched him walk around the apartment with his hands behind his back, his mind constantly thinking.

"Okay, well that's really it; I've got nothing else to ask. Are you going to be okay?" asked John.

"Fine," she said blankly. She got up from her chair and walked out of the flat and down the stairs before John could react and show her to the door. He jumped up from his chair but could already hear the door slamming from downstairs; he sighed and put the tea mugs back into the kitchen.

"John, I hope your interview was successful," said Sherlock.

"Don't start, we did find out something useful though."

"And that was?"

"She doesn't have anyone left, no family, and no friends. There are those at the yard, but she was transferred there two years ago, so she's not that close with everyone. She's got no one left to be targeted at, so the murders will stop."

"Meanwhile we still have a murderer to catch. Let's go to St Bart's."

"Yeah, all right, Molly will have examined the bodies by now," said John as he picked up his coat and walked down the stairs, "We can get something to eat on the way back."

"Good, of we go then."

….

"Hi, Sherlock, John," said Molly. Her white coat swept about her as she walked in between the bodies, her hair was tied up in a ponytail, held in place by a small flower. Her t-shirt was striped, and her jeans were old and worn.

The sterile white which was the walls were spotless, making the laboratory so bright it gave you a headache when you walked in. In the centre of the room, five tables lay, and on top of them were the most recent victims, the five girls. They were all covered with a white sheet, save their heads. Their eyes were closed and they were all ghostly white, giving them the impression of sleeping.

"Evening, Molly," greeted John.

"What do you have?" asked Sherlock.

"Five females, all between their early to late thirties, gunshot to the nape of their neck, and a small gash across their throats, approximately three centimetres long. All identical," she reeled off the details of the victims.

Sherlock pulled back the sheet slightly to examine the slits on the neck, "Post death, yes?"

"Yes, the only purpose the slits held was to drain the blood, and not all of it, a gash that small it would've taken several hours."

Sherlock pulled the sheet back over the body and examined the rest of the victims' necks, before covering them back up again. His hands flew up to either side of his temple, as he pressed down hard onto his head. John, who was standing across the room, could even see the pressure Sherlock was putting onto his head. He sometimes did this when he was trying to remember something important from his past. John's phone started to ring, echoing around the large room and causing everyone to jump. He gave an apologetic glance and reached in his pocket to answer the noisy device.

"Hello?" he asked.

There was a muffled reply from the other end.

"Mycroft?" John looked at the caller ID, "What are you doing on Lestrade's phone?"

As the man replied, Sherlock pulled a face.

"Okay, see you in five," John said and hung up. "There's been another note."

"Another one? More bodies? That will be at least 15 bodies, I only have five tables and fifteen lockers, if this keeps up we will need to transfer them to another lab!"

"How can there be more bodies? Donovan doesn't have anyone else, who else will it be?" Sherlock said to himself.

Loudly, the lab doors swung open, revealing Lestrade and Mycroft. The DI strode in clutching an evidence bag and in it a note. He placed it on the table and everyone in the room surrounded it.

**_Five more tonight._**

**_A._**

"I don't understand, who else is there to kill?" asked John.

"We won't know until tonight, I guess," said Lestrade.

Sherlock walked over to a table at the side and dug around in the draws until he found a handful of equipment. He then walked into a cupboard at the side, and carried two small boxes containing something. He strode back over to the note and took it out of the bag, using a scalpel; he scraped off fragments of the congealed blood. He was grateful that a lot of it had been used and therefore there was enough to scrape off. He took the thick blood and placed it into a small petri dish, adding a colourless liquid to the blood, he swirled it around and watched as the blood separated into two layers. Everyone in the room watched in amazement at what he was doing, Molly knew of course, and therefore assisted him in the process, whilst the others watched in awe. She gave him a pipette and he accepted it without looking, before injecting the DNA into a box filled with a clear jelly. He injected the DNA into the box several more times, before pushing the equipment aside, and switching on a battery pack attached to the box. A small hum started from the battery pack and the detective grunted in satisfaction.

The detective walked over to one of the petri dishes next to the bodies and carried it over to the table. Molly picked up the second box and gave it to Sherlock, who repeated the process. He switched on the second battery pack and stepped back to admire his work.

"What the bloody hell was that?" asked Lestrade.

The detective looked at the man sarcastically, "What do you think?"

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a headache were coming and he didn't have the time to be messed about with. "I don't know, just tell me."

"I'm currently in the middle of a DNA process; I took a sample of the blood from the note, and a sample of the blood from the crime scene. The latter contains all five kinds of the victims' blood; I'm testing to see if the blood on the note matches it. Right now, we are waiting for the fragments of the cells to move to the positive side of the electrophoresis gel. Once it is done, we can compare the hyper variable regions, which would display a pattern. It won't be the most accurate of tests however it will let us know if the blood matches." Sherlock spoke so fast that Lestrade had trouble keeping up.

"Oh," said Mycroft, the first word he had uttered since he arrived.

….

Not long later, the sociopath bound the radioactive probes before placing the photographic film over the gel. The rest of the method was a blur to the observers, except Molly who assisted, the detective and the scientist rushed back and forth between machines, pressing buttons and flicking switches. A couple of minutes later, Sherlock turned the monitor towards the observers and beamed up at them.

"A match, yes?" he asked excitedly.

Mycroft and Lestrade shook their heads, whereas John, who understood the process slightly, nodded. "Yes, almost a perfect match. There are definitely some matching DNA patterns. So the note is in the victims' blood?"

"Yes," said Sherlock kissing John on his head. "At least someone understands." John blushed and Molly coughed dramatically next to Sherlock.

"I'm a doctor, remember?" she said sarcastically.

"Oh, yes. Sorry."

"Well, it's a match, how does that help?" asked Lestrade.

"It tells us that the murderer has some of the remaining blood, explaining why there wasn't enough in the bodies, it also tells us that this serial killer is a smart man, he's sending us a warning," smiled Sherlock.

"So, what now?" Lestrade asked to the open room.

"We wait for the victims, terrible again. Whereas we realise the connection, there doesn't seem to be anyone left to kill, strangely enough," said Mycroft.

…

"Sit down, we're probably going to be here a while. I'll go get us some coffee, Mycroft?" Lestrade gestured for everyone to take a seat in an empty room. He told then on the way to the station in the taxi, that there would be a room they could wait in, usually officers who had been working long shifts took breaks in the room when they could, so it was an ideal place to wait. "Can you help me with the drinks?" Mycroft nodded and followed Lestrade out of the room to get the coffee.

Sherlock took of his gloves and scarf, and discarded them onto the back of the chair, when he then took of his coat. John sat in the chair next to him and took of his jacket, leaving it to lie around his waist. He rubbed his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache he knew he would soon suffer. Sherlock reached behind him into his coat pocket and brought out a pack of paracetemol, handing it to his partner. John smiled and accepted them gratefully, "Thank you, I didn't know you kept paracetemol with you."

"Yes, I know you occasionally suffer from headaches, especially on difficult cases, so I took it upon myself to always have some," said the detective.

John smiled at the kind thought, "This is a difficult case, I don't like the fact that we have to sit and wait for the next murders." Sherlock instinctively reached across the chair to find John's hand and held it tight.

"Don't worry, it'll be over soon," said the sociopath as he gave the hand a squeeze. Mycroft walked back into the room, followed by Lestrade and Anderson, who scowled at the pair holding hands.

"I've brought you coffee, from the machine," the Government Official frowned.

"Thank you, Mycroft," said John, who accepted the coffee.

"Black, two sugars?" asked Sherlock.

Mycroft nodded and handed the other cup to his brother, "Just like when you were a child."

"You drank coffee as a child?" asked John.

"Only when I was solving a case that the police couldn't, it's not a big deal," said Sherlock.

"Explains a lot," mumbled Anderson, whose presence was only just noticed in the room.

"What are you doing here, Anderson?" asked Lestrade.

"Donovan is at home, she won't be on the case anymore. So the boss put me on instead, so I thought I should wait here too."

"_I _am the boss. And you are a forensic officer, this isn't your division." said Lestrade.

"The Superintendent put me on here. As I am the only one who has dealt with a case this big, he recommended me" said Anderson. "What are _they_ doing here?" he gestured at the crime-fighting pair.

"Unlike you, Anderson, we are _wanted_ by the Yard, and are not a second choice. We're on the case," said Sherlock matter-of-factly.

"I wasn't asking you, Freak."

"Shut up, Anderson. They are wanted for this case, I put them on it. Now if you're going to be here then you do as you're told and you can shut up," told his DI.

Anderson skulked into the corner and sat down on a white plastic chair. The rest of the room was filled with cushioned brown chairs, set out for tired officers, in rows of three. They were all pointed at a large television on one side, where underneath sat a table, clustered with empty teas and coffees, opened biscuits turning stale and plates of crumbs. This was the break room.

Sherlock and John sat in the back row, their hands still interlocked and their eyes drooping slowly. Lestrade leant against the filthy table and thought about Donovan, whereas Mycroft stood next to him, resting on his umbrella. (Which was, as always, colour coordinated with his complete attire.) His crisp beige suit was ironed to perfection, and his trousers had creases as prominent as his brother's cheek bones. Today, he wore a deep rouge tie, which also matched Lestrade's.

_That's coincidental,_ thought Sherlock.

A muscled officer knocked on the door and walked into the room; he had a bald head and looked to have the same amount of IQ points as Anderson. He stood in front of the DI and said, "Sir, there's been a reported murder. Five people, Sir."

Everyone in the room leant forward, for the first time in an hour something had caught their attention. "Five?" he looked at Sherlock. "This is it." He looked back at the officer shifting uncomfortably in front of him, "Have they been identified?"

"Yes, Sir. It was a patrol car that found them; a squaddie took pictures and sent them to another officer, who ran them by the facial recognition scans. "

John and Sherlock snorted at the incorrect use of the word 'squaddie'.

"Who are they?" asked Sherlock.

"Five men," he looked at a posted note in his hands, where he had scrawled on the names. "David Jones, Michael Owens, Patrick Dukes, Peter Jones and Frank Partridge," he reeled off.

"What?" gasped Anderson. "They're my friends!" he cried before throwing up onto the floor.

Mycroft stepped further away from the heaving man, whilst Sherlock slowly rose up from his chair. "It's not Donovan, she's not the connection. It's the Yard, he's targeting the Yard."


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry I didn't upload the chapter last night, I was too busy caught up in the romance of Valentines Day. (Joking, of course. I was watching Sherlock DVDs)**

**I also apologise for this chapter, its quite short and uneventful. Sorry. **

**All reviews **

**wanted and welcome!**

* * *

"What?" yelled Lestrade. He was awkwardly standing around Anderson, who had finally stopped heaving and now had passed out next to his own vomit.

_Shock. That was pathetic, _thought Sherlock.

"Yes, it's obvious isn't it? That's the connection, he's targeting The Yard. The first five were a warm up, foreshadowing what was to come. The first five were known slightly by all of you! Then he moved onto Donovan, killed her five friends, and next was Anderson! He's punishing members of The Yard, why kill you when he can do much worse? Lestrade, you're probably next!" Sherlock beamed at the group, craving praise due to finding the connection, before realising that fifteen people were dead, and stopped.

"Sherlock!" warned Mycroft. "You can't just tell people that they're about to be killed!"

"I'm not, I'm telling him that five people he know are about to be killed!" he corrected. Mycroft pursed his lips and started to walk over to Lestrade, before spotting the vomit and stood where he was. He didn't want to spoil his new suit; his PA had bought it only last week, he wasn't going to stain it carelessly.

"Can someone help in here please?" yelled Lestrade out into the room. The bald officer had disappeared as soon as Anderson started to throw up, apparently he didn't find vomiting comfortable. Two men entered the room, upon seeing the vomit they backed out quickly to find someone to clean it up.

"John, we've got work to do," Sherlock said. "Gentlemen, if you excuse us."

Mycroft remained baffled in the corner, unaware as to what the protocol was in a situation like this. Lestrade had started to attempt to prop Anderson up against the wall, he unsuccessfully sagged next to the doorway, which was good enough.

John left the room and started to make his way out of the station. "You know how it is, this isn't really our thing, we have actual detective work to do," said Sherlock, who followed after John.

….

"Sherlock, how do you know that the murderer is targeting The Yard?" asked John in the taxi. They had left the station and jumped into the cab as soon as possible, to head home to Baker Street and think.

"Obviously. The first five deaths were all known by most people in The Yard. The next five were friends of Sergeant Donovan, not all of her friends, but close enough to create an impact. The next dead were associates of Anderson, not friends; he doesn't have friends. Obviously all the victims have one common factor, The Yard. Meaning the next five could possibly be Lestrade, if there are to be more, and I'm very certain there is. So, we still need to research the throat slitting's, there is no need to visit the crime scene right now," he said with a flourish. "Oh, and we're not having Anderson in our flat, you can use other methods of deducing."

"Fine, okay. But you shouldn't have said that to Lestrade, it's not something most people take lightly."

"I was helping him wasn't I? Better for him to know now than be shocked when he finds out."

John shook his head, not bothering to reply.

Once the men had got into the flat, they both sat in their own chairs and began to think. John thought about the latest victims, and how they were going to find out who the next were. Sherlock, about the gashes on the throats and what their purpose was.

"Sherlock, I think we need to go to the crime scene."

Sherlock sat still with his eyes closed; his hands were in a steeple against his lips. His temple was contorted into a frown, and his breathing was deep and shallow.

"Sherlock!"

He awoke from the depths of his mind, "What? Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine; I just said that I think we should go to the crime scene tomorrow, see if the murderer left anything that could help us."

Sherlock thought about this for a moment, before saying "Yes, I suppose we should. It is a vitality, so we should go for tomorrow."

"Great, do you want a cuppa?" asked John. He got up and walked into the kitchen, getting out two cups and teabags.

"Yes, please."

John filled the kettle and watched it boil, "Sherlock, shall we get a take-away? We should've got one on the way home."

"Yes, I suppose. Chips?" he asked. He picked up his coat and his gloves and scarf, "I can go round now."

"You, you will buy the chips?" asked John sarcastically. "Sherlock Holmes, who texts me from the next room to buy milk?"

"Yes, John. Do you want the chips or not?"

"Sure, thanks," said John. He smiled at Sherlock and watched him leave the apartment, all wrapped up for the winter night.

…..

"I don't think we'll be able to finish them all, shall we put the rest in the microwave for later?"

"See if Mrs. Hudson would like them first, I really must stop Jerry from giving me more," said Sherlock. They were sat in the kitchen, eating the chips off trays.

John tried to ignore the egg-like stench coming from the petri dishes around him. He shook his head lightly, attempting to remain awake and keep the conversation going. "Mmm 'kay," he yawned. "Why do we always get extra chips anyway?"

"I once helped Jerry with a murder conviction, he was innocent, however partaking in an affair at the time and didn't seem to know how to voice his innocence."

"Oh, do all take-away owners you know have a criminal record?"

"Umm, no not all."

John picked up the rest of the chips and carried them downstairs, to see if Mrs. Hudson wanted them. Five minutes later he walked back into the kitchen with the chips still in hand. "She didn't want them, she seems to think that I need to eat more, before I 'become too thin for Sherlock'…"

Sherlock got up and kissed John on his cheek, "You're not too thin, you're just right."

John blushed and watched Sherlock walk into their bedroom to get changed. John cleaned up the table, placing the remainder of the chips into the microwave and disposing the trays into the sink, to be cleaned later. He was about to place Sherlock's experiments back onto the table, but thought better of it and decide he didn't want to risk breaking them.

Sherlock re-emerged from the bedroom, wearing grey pyjama bottoms and carrying a black t-shirt in his hands. His chest was bare, displaying his abs and his v-line. John smiled and licked his lips, _time and a place, John,_ he thought.

When Sherlock reached up to put his t-shirt on, his muscles in his arms moved and John blushed, delighting in the little show. On Sherlock's front of his stomach, the bullet wound was visible which left a small scar. John only glanced at it for a moment before it was covered with the shirt.

John decided that he would get changed too, no use remaining in his clothes. He walked into the bedroom and took of his grey jumper and his shirt, and cast them aside onto the corner of the bedroom floor. He removed his old jeans and threw them next to his jumper, and walked to his drawers to find some pyjamas. He picked out some striped bottoms and a white shirt. He got changed and turned around to see Sherlock watching him in the doorway.

"Jesus Sherlock! How long have you been watching me?"

"You really must heighten your hearing; I've been here as long as you have." He strode over to John and kissed him on his lips, leaning forward and falling slowly onto the bed. He kissed John's neck and his jawline, whilst John fingered Sherlock's hair. John flipped the pair over so he was lying on top of Sherlock and smiled. He lowered his hands to the rim of Sherlock's shirt and pulled it up, "Take it off," he mumbled against his lips.

Sherlock obeyed as his partner said, and took his shirt off, throwing it away in front of him. John kissed down Sherlock's chest and Sherlock sighed. John kissed Sherlock's bullet scar as his lips lingered over the mark. Sherlock had lately been trying to hide his chest, afraid to show his scar to John. He didn't realise why he was doing this, but he didn't want to show John all the same.

"Now you have one, just like me," said John. Sherlock smiled at the realisation, and kissed John harder.

"I don't want this to end," whispered Sherlock to the dark room. He lay on the bed, with John on his chest. They remained in each other's arms, talking all night in this position. His hands were fiddling with the bottom of John's t-shirt, playing with it as he spoke with him. John's hands were stroking Sherlock's pyjama bottoms with his eyes closed, feeling the soft fabric beneath his fingertips.

"Me neither," whispered John.


	10. Chapter 10

**Again, not a very exciting chapter. Sorry. **

**Thank you for sticking with me so far, I promise to write more exciting things and upload them more often!**

**If anyone has any ideas for this fic, or any other ideas for something else, let me know. I'll take prompt words and then write something based upon it... **

**Enjoy! x**

* * *

Sherlock typed vigorously at his laptop, his attention never wavering from the device on his lap. He was sat up in bed, the duvet draped across his legs, where the laptop rested on top. John lay asleep next to him, snuggled into Sherlock's waist, his breathing light as he snored softly.

Sherlock clicked on a website and read.

_In most common cases, murderers would mark the dead with a signature, something to prove that this was their own work. For example, a __bruise on their necks__, a __letter in blood__, __an item left by the bodies, __a __cut across a body part__. _

Sherlock clicked on the hyperlink for 'cut across a body part' and a new page loaded.

_In the case of a murderer to leave a cut or scratch on the victim's body, it is a way of declaring that they are the murderer to other people, without revealing the name. Such as if they were employed to kill, this would be a message to their employer letting them know that they were the killer. Similar to a painter signing his work. _

_In the case of 1990, three people were murdered on separate occasions. One was a teenager, the other an elderly woman and the third a middle-aged man. They were all shot in the back of their heads, and had a small slit on their throats. Post-mortem tests concluded that the slit didn't have any effect to the body whatsoever and was carried out after the victims died. The police were unable to find any connections between the victims, and therefore the case remained unsolved. _

_Nothing was left at the crime scene; the police were unable to find any fingerprints, clues or DNA samples._

"Ow!" yelled Sherlock. John had elbowed him in his bony hip, "What John?"

"I was talking to you and you didn't reply," yawned John. "I said what are you doing?"

"Here, read this," said Sherlock. He thrust the laptop onto John who sat up and read the paragraph. "Do you see the difference?"

John quickly read the paragraph again and said, "No?"

Sherlock took the laptop from John's lap and placed it back onto his, "There were no clues! The last murders the police were 'unable to find any fingerprints, clues or DNA samples'. But what has happened in these murders? The killer left a note, what does that tell you?"

"That he likes to give the police clues?"

"No John! As always you see but do not observe! He's giving the police hints about when the next murders will be, because…." He attempted to prompt John, who just shook his head. "The killer wants to be found, he craves the attention of the Yard, and also the revenge he is conflicting upon them."

"How does that help us?"

"It means that he's going to make a mistake. He wants to be found, the killer. One day, he will slip up and reveal something crucial to the plan."

John shuffled back under the duvet and yawned, "That's great Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his laptop and got out of bed; he wrapped himself up into a dressing gown and walked into the living room. He sat down onto his chair and picked up his violin, plucking at it rhythmically.

An hour later, when John was finally awake, he stumbled into the living room to see Sherlock sat in the same position he was an hour earlier. Sherlock's feet were crossed on his chair, and he still plucked at the small instrument he held protectively in his hands. John smiled and made two cups of tea for the pair, and placed his partners onto the desk next to him, careful to not disturb his concentration or thought. John sat onto his chair too, and got out his book he kept underneath it. John used to be a big reader, and would happily sit down and relish in a book for hours, however due to meeting Sherlock, finding time to read was becoming much harder.

The man opened the book to the third chapter, which wasn't very far considering he bought the book two weeks ago, and began to read the first paragraph. John was reading The Nursery Crime Division, a book by his favourite author. It was the story of a police force, which solved crimes that were nursery rhymes. For instance, the Three Bears. Despite its misleading name, John thought the books were intelligently written, and the characters often reminded him of people in the Yard.

"John, what are you doing?" asked Sherlock. He had put down his violin and now had taken a sudden interest in the man sat opposite him.

"I thought an intelligent man like you would be able to tell," replied John sarcastically.

"I know you are reading John, but I want to know _why_." The bored detective emphasised his last word.

"Because I _like_ to read," sighed John, simply.

"The baker did it."

John froze; he stopped reading and dropped his book onto his open lap. He looked up at Sherlock and smiled, "Sherlock, please tell me you are lying, and that you didn't just ruin quite possibly one of my favourite books?"

"No, why would I lie? The baker did it, now come on we have real detective work to do." Sherlock jumped off his chair and walked down the hall into his bedroom, which was just as well; because John thought he might have hit Sherlock if he was still in the room.

"Sherlock you cock! You absolute cock!" John yelled as he walked down the hall.

Sherlock's head poked out from behind the door way, and he looked concernedly at the mad man, "John?"

"Why did you have to tell me the end of the book?" he yelled in the detectives face. "It may be obvious to you but I wanted to read it myself!"

"Why? It's just a book, there are much better deductions in real life," he said simply. The sociopath disappeared back into the room where he was getting changed. His pyjamas lay strewn across the bed, as he looked for something to wear today. "I'm going to have a bath," said Sherlock. He walked out of the room wearing just his underwear and dressing gown, and into the bathroom.

He turned to face John and partially leant against the doorway. The blogger knew that the detective was teasing him, the unspoken question of whether John would be joining him. Naturally, John would've said yes, but John was still mad at Sherlock for ruining the book. The man turned his back on the younger behind him and walked into their bedroom, where he found the clothes he would be wearing today. He got his phone from the bedside table and called Lestrade whilst he waited for the bathroom to be free.

In between rings, John could hear the sound of the running taps and the man striding round the bathroom. John knew that Sherlock would be having a hot bath, and that he would be in there for a long time. He sighed, regretting his decision to remain alone in the bedroom.

"John? Hello, anyone there?" asked a gravelly voice.

John broke out of his daze to realise that Lestrade had answered. "Oh, sorry. I was just calling to see if you have any news on the case?"

"Not yet, Anderson's a bit of a mess. Poor bastard. But I'll be questioning him today, I guess Sherlock and you would want to do the same?"

"If you wouldn't mind," confirmed John. "We'll be there for about twelve."

"Great, has he found anything out?" Lestrade asked desperately. Sometimes John pitied the man, cases like this meant that there was nothing to go by. That usually resulted in everyone relying on Sherlock.

"I think so, but he'll be better at explaining it. It's nothing ground breaking though, so don't keep your hopes up."

Lestrade thanked the man and hung up; John sighed and fell back onto the bed. His arms were outstretched and he closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back into the willing arms of sleep.

"John!" a velvety voice sang out from the hall. John's eyes flew open. "John!" the voice rang out again. It was smooth like silk.

"Sherlock?" John asked. He knew some form of ridiculous request would be expected of him. "What do you want?"

There was a pause before a reply, "I need a towel, John."

"You have a towel," said John.

"I forgot to get one before I came in. could you bring me one please?" John could tell that Sherlock was smiling.

John swallowed and pushed himself off the bed, "Are you kidding me?" he groaned.

"Please!" Sherlock begged.

"You're more than capable of getting one yourself."

"It's cold, John."

John sighed and got off the bed to grab a towel, if there were none in the bathroom then John could probably find a pile of them in his old bedroom. Now John and Sherlock shared a room, they used his old room to store items. Towels, experiments, it was handy to have a room where they could dump items. John climbed up the stairs to the room, grumbling about lazy men. He returned outside of the bathroom with a towel. He knew completely that Sherlock was doing this to tease him. Sherlock knew that John couldn't remain mad at him forever, and the sooner he forgave him the better.

John knocked on the door and pushed it open slightly; he placed his hand through the small gap and held out the towel to be taken. Soft, wet hands touched John's as the cotton towel was grasped from his hands. John turned to leave, yet the door suddenly swung open, to reveal the man behind it.

Sherlock's hair was wet and would've been plastered to his forehead, had he not shook it. It now stood up slightly, his curls forming as they dried. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, where he left his muscles and chest on show. Whereas Sherlock didn't like showing his scars, he knew displaying his chest would torment John. He pushed past the man standing in the hallway and walked into the bedroom.

"The shower's free," called out a soft voice.

John swallowed.

"Right, I'm done talking to him, he's all yours." Greg Lestrade had just exited the small interrogation room, where he was previously questioning Anderson. His suit was creased and his bags under his eyes were dark.

_He obviously wasn't staying at Mycroft's last night,_ thought Sherlock.

John walked into the room, closely followed by Sherlock. Before he could shut the door, the DI caught his arm. "I'll be watching you okay? No funny business, this is a serious crime."

"Why thank you, inspector. I was unaware as to the scale of this case so far, thank you," he said sarcastically.

Lestrade sent him a warning look, but shut the door and hurried round to another room where he watched the questioning.

"Hello, Anderson," chimed Sherlock. The consultant pulled up a chair in the table and sat down.

"What are you doing here?" spat the man. He had even bigger bags under his eyes than Lestrade, his clothes were untucked and crinkled, and his hands shook as they reached for his latest cup of coffee. Sherlock's eyes whizzed around the man in front of him, calculating every detail that he could deduce.

"I believe you know why, I'm here to ask some questions." Sherlock slapped his hands together and rubbed them. "So, what is your connection to the deceased?"

John rolled his eyes at his partner's lack of empathy, _way to be considerate, Sherlock_, John thought.

Anderson swallowed, "They were my friends. We haven't been in contact for ages, so…."

Sherlock resisted the temptation to scoff, "Yes, I can see why. Do you know why anyone would want to hurt them, or you?"

Anderson shook his head, "No, I don't know any freaks that would do this, other than you." John took a step forwards, but thought better of it and stopped. Sherlock could imagine the doctor's fists clenching behind him.

"Yes, I see. Where were you last night?"

Anderson, who had been drinking his cold coffee, choked and stared surprisingly up at the men. "Excuse me? I was here, at the station! I'm not a suspect in this!"

"Really? Because you could have easily killed the people related to The Yard and Donovan, before killing your five friends to cover up your tracks," Sherlock accused.

"What? No! I wouldn't dare to do that!"

"Why not?"

"I'm not a murderer, freak," he retorted.

"What about Anderson, you could have killed her friends," Sherlock said rapidly.

"No."

"And why not?"

"I didn't," growled Anderson.

"And why not?"

Anderson stood up from his chair, "Well why would I kill her friends if I'm sleeping with her? Not so bright are you?" he yelled.

Sherlock leant back in his chair and smiled, a few seconds later Lestrade burst through the door. "Out. Now." Sherlock got out of his chair and followed John out of the room, shutting the door behind him. "Was there a need for that?"

"Jesus, Sherlock. He's right, you didn't actually find anything of importance!" said John.

"Oh, you people, so close minded. I found out a lot. I could tell from when I first walked in that he didn't expect the murders. His hands shook, a sign of stress, he desires to be on the case and helping. His clothes are untucked; he's been fidgeting a lot, nervous. Not only that but he didn't fiddle with his thumbs. When Anderson lies, he plays with his thumbs, a dead give-away. Just then he didn't, his hands shook but he didn't do anything else. That and the obvious that Anderson is incapable of killing anything, he doesn't have the intelligence for it. Yet, he also doesn't know why they killed his friends or why he is being targeted.

As well as this, his friends are old friends and he hasn't seen them in a while. Which shows that the murderer has some knowledge of his target's backgrounds. Now, the details about the affair between Donovan and Anderson I have known for quite a while now. I asked him then because people are unwilling to tell the truth, unless they are contradicting someone."

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief, "What else do you have, about the murders?"

Sherlock rapidly explained the links and similarities between the previous cases and the current one. Lestrade nodded along vaguely, understanding the most of what was being said. "So, we could be looking for the same murderer."


	11. Chapter 11

**Hope you like the chapter! all reviews wanted and welcome! **

**I would like to thank the anonymous reviewer, who spotted the mistake I made on the summary. Thank you, I corrected it immediately. :)**

* * *

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose, cursing the fact that he didn't keep any paracetemol on himself, "That wasn't my time, but I can make a few calls and get the records for the case?"

Sherlock nodded, "I guess we'll be seeing you tonight, judging by the murderer's pattern there should be more tonight."

"No, you're not going just yet." Said Lestrade firmly, "If you honestly believe I'm next, then you're going to stay here and help protect the people."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I solve the murders, Lestrade. Protecting people isn't my area of expertise,"

"No, but we can help find out who will be the next victims, and see if we can stop the murder," John interrupted.

"John," Sherlock started.

"It's fine, we'll stay Lestrade," John interrupted again.

"Thanks, come on the meeting room will be open, we can use that," Lestrade turned around and walked down the hall and into an unoccupied room. The three sat down and looked at each other.

"Time?" Sherlock asked.

"One o'clock," answered Lestrade and John simultaneously.

"So, we have several hours before the next murders," Sherlock spoke to himself.

"No, we have several hours until the murderer is caught, hopefully," said Lestrade.

Sherlock waved his slender hand in the air, dismissing the notion, "Whatever." The consultant placed his hands into a steeple against his lips and stared into the unknown. John looked at Lestrade, both knowing that the man wouldn't emerge from the depths of his Mind Palace for a long time.

"So, asking the obvious, is there anyone you are meeting soon? Anyone that could be your five connections?" asked John. He shook off his jacket and let it fall to his waist; leaning back in his chair, he turned to face the DI.

"Possibly, there's a high school reunion I was planning to go to this weekend," offered Lestrade. "That's the most obvious guess I've been operating on."

"Yeah, so that's only two days away. Is there anyone you are particularly close with who will be attending?"

"Well yes, you see a few of them are staying in a hotel not far from here, there's seven of them staying in the hotel, old buddies."

John nodded along understandingly, "That's probably most likely. Is there any way of contacting them? Letting them know?"

"Well it's hardly the thing you call up and say is it? I can't call them up and tell them that they might be killed because of me!"

"I guess so, what's the plan then?"

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders, "That's why I called the two of you down here, I say we go to the hotel with back-up and wait until the murderer arrives."

"Yeah, you're the boss. Is the crime scene of the latest murders still open? I think Sherlock may want to go," asked John.

"Yes, I would like to go," muttered Sherlock from the chair behind them. The two turned to face the man who had suddenly focused his attention back into the room. "It would be wise to visit the scene of the crime. Shall we be going now?" he asked John.

"Is there anything else?" John asked Lestrade.

"No, thanks," he stood up and followed the men out of the room.

* * *

The taxi driver grunted out to the passengers, "Where to?" His dirt crusted hands guided the taxi out of the street.

"The Old Miners pub, please" John said, Lestrade had informed them of the location as they left. The driver nodded and drove through the maze of London streets. "So do you have a plan?"

Sherlock looked sarcastically at his companion, "Of course John, I always have a plan. We observe the crime scene and then we wait head to the hotel, where Lestrade's friends are staying, at five. From then on we perform the plan Lestrade had informed us of."

"Right, okay," said John.

* * *

The pair paid for the taxi and got out, walking behind the old pub and into a field of sheep behind it. They strode up to the people dressed in white overalls, holding various bags and samples.

"At least this time they're not dead," Sherlock whispered to John. John smiled and held Sherlock's hand as they walked up. They saw the five males lying next to each other, with the same visible cause of death. A forensic team shuffled around the dead, laying out number cards and taking photographs.

"Excuse me, Mr Holmes and Watson?" a thick Scottish accent called out to the pair from the other side of the field. A man wearing a deep navy suit and a crisp white shirt walked over to the newcomers. He didn't wear a white overall, as he avoided the dead and walked around them. "I'm detective McFarland, and I'm in charge of this crime scene. DI Lestrade said you would be coming here, may I help you?"

"Yes, give me five minutes on the crime scene," Sherlock said.

The detective nodded and signalled a man to bring over two overalls, "Put these on please."

John sighed, knowing what was about to be said. "That won't be necessary," Sherlock brushed the man holding the overalls away. "I do not need to wear one."

"Mr Holmes, it is a necessity, please put on the overall if you will be going anywhere near the deceased," the thick Scottish accent demanded to be obeyed.

"Detective, judging from your need to obey the rules you are new. You have been called down from another station to run the crime scene. However, I have been on many crimes scenes before, solving murders for several years, I don't wear overalls."

"I'm sorry, but honestly he won't wear one," John tried to help.

"Lestrade informed me you might do this, five minutes," sighed the Scottish man. Sherlock strode over to the bodies and bent down, staring intently at the slits across the throat.

John outstretched his hand to the attractive detective, "John Watson, call me John," he offered. The detective shook his hand, "Detective David McFarland, call me David." John looked up at the tall detective and smiled. He was an attractive man, whose hair had obviously been attempted to comb back, yet was sticking up in odd places. His brown eyes were the same colour of his hair, besides from the blonde tinge to it. He was over six feet tall, John guessed, and held himself proudly. Unlike Sherlock, he wasn't very muscular, and obviously weighed several more pounds than the doctor's companion. Despite that John found him vaguely attractive, not that he was looking any way.

"You and him," the detective gestured with his head to Sherlock, "Are you a thing?" John didn't answer immediately, _was this man asking him what he thought he was? _

"Er, yes. Yes we are," John said unsurely.

"Ah, I see, sorry to pry," apologised the detective.

"No, not prying," assured John. He smiled and the Scottish detective returned it. Sherlock glanced over to the two men and frowned, standing up and walking briskly over.

"John?" Sherlock asked quickly, "Is everything okay?" he grasped John's hand as a show in front of the detective.

John knew that Sherlock could become jealous at some times, "Yes, Sherlock. Everything is fine."

"Yes, I can see why you like John," the detective said. He smiled, complementing John and aggravating Sherlock.

Sherlock let go of John's hand and took a step forward towards the detective, "Yes."

The Scottish detective took a step forward too, towering over the sociopath slightly, "Did you find anything useful?"

"Of course I did, but nothing I didn't already presume," snarled Sherlock.

"Really, you believe you are _that_ smart? Five minutes on a crime scene and you have everything you need?"

"I know I am that smart." Sherlock looked over the man in front of him, "I can tell from the clothes that you are wearing that you are a part time detective, and that your other job is a stressful position in the city. You a currently a single man who lives in the city, with a small Burmese cat. Who by the way, needs to seek a vet's attention as they have a serve skin condition. You have a cup of coffee every day, and are a strong smoker, who hasn't had a cigarette in several hours. You feel that you can't have one on the job, and therefore are suffering from withdrawal symptoms. You are new on the job and therefore desire to stick to the rules in order to impress your boss with the hopes of a promotion. Am… I … wrong?"

The Scottish detective took a step back from the sociopath and his eyes widened in disbelief, "How?" he whispered.

"I observed," Sherlock said simply. "Good day, detective." Sherlock took John's hand and walked through the field and the gate and into the pub garden. He got out his phone and called a taxi, which would arrive in ten minutes.

"There was no need for that," John said holding back a smile. He would never tell Sherlock but he found it attractive when Sherlock became defensive of John and his work.

"Yes there was. Do you want to know what I found out?"

"Yes, I should have had a look myself, too late now," John said.

"There was no need, the exact same cause of death, no difference. Except this," Sherlock handed John his phone to look at the picture. "He left behind two foot prints."

John looked at the clear photo and smiled, sure enough two foot prints remained preserved in the mud. "This is good, this will really help."

"Yes, it will. We need to go to Lestrade now at the hotel," he said.

He stood up a few minutes later and got into the taxi that had arrived, followed by John.

* * *

"Anything interesting at the crime scene?" Lestrade asked. He greeted the boys from around the corner of the hotel. Surrounding him were a team of police officers wearing bullet proof vests and ear pieces.

"Nothing majorly interesting," Sherlock said. He quickly explained the foot print that he had found at how that would help. "So we now know that the murderer has a size ten shoe, his height is about 6 feet tall and he is roughly thirteen stone."

"I'm not even going to ask how you know that," Lestrade said. He strapped himself into a bullet-proof vest and covered it with his jacket. "You have to stay out here, you're not going in with us, you can sit in the van and watch but that's all."

Sherlock dismissed him by the wave of his hand, "Fine, has there been a note?"

"No, this is strange."

Sherlock mumbled his agreement and entered the van with John, where a group surrounded several small televisions. On one side a stocky man was watching the hotel security feed of the corridors. Another man was watching the feed through a camera which was strapped to Lestrade. Three women watched camera feeds coming from other officers.

Lestrade gestured for his team to start walking towards the hotel, "Come on, let's go!" he yelled.

* * *

John and Sherlock sat behind the five people in the large van. They were all watching the footage on the monitors, waiting for any sign of the murderer.

"John, why are we just waiting?" Sherlock whispered into his partner's ear.

"We're undercover; we're waiting for the murderer to show."

"Its nine o'clock, we've been in here for several hours and there still hasn't been a note," grumbled Sherlock.

"I know, it's strange. I'm sure it won't be much longer," soothed John.

* * *

"It's seven o'clock; you might as well go home. We'll be monitoring the guys for a while but it looks like it should be okay," Lestrade yawned.

"Why? Why hasn't the murderer killed them?" yelled Sherlock. He was pacing back and forth outside of the van, his hands running through his hair in frustration.

"I don't know, but you might as well go home and we'll call you if anything happens," Lestrade leant against the van and sighed, he hadn't slept in several days.

"It doesn't make sense! Why has the murderer broke the pattern?" Sherlock roared.


	12. Chapter 12

A very VERY short chapter, sorry. I realise I haven't updated for a while, but I'll be uploading more often as I'm free this whole week.

I hope you like it. x

* * *

John and Sherlock got out of the taxi and marched into Baker Street. Sherlock ran ahead up the stairs, but John popped in to see Mrs Hudson. She was standing in her kitchen, surrounded by cake tins and flour.

"Morning, Mrs Hudson, baking?"

"Ooh, John. Yes, I wasn't busy today so I thought I might bake something, I'm also visiting my sister today. Which reminds me, I'm staying for a few days, will you boys be okay?"

"Yes, we'll be fine."

"Don't let Sherlock ruin my wall again. Anything he does will be put on his rent!" she warned.

"Yes, of course. Sorry about that again," he apologised.

"We get all sorts; the ones next door brought home a dog, terrible mess."

John laughed and kissed her on the cheek, before heading up stairs and into the living room. He saw Sherlock throw his coat onto the sofa, followed by his scarf and gloves. John sighed and walked into the kitchen, pulling out a cup for himself. He knew that Sherlock would be too busy thinking to relax, so he would make him one once he's calmed down.

_He was hell in the car, _John thought. _These cases really get him agitated; maybe I should take him out somewhere? Calm him down…_

The kettle finished boiling and John made his tea, he took a sip of the hot liquid and smiled. He walked into the living room and dodged the pacing Sherlock, who had quickened his pace and was almost running around the living room. He sat down and picked up the book that was next to him, making sure that Sherlock wouldn't step on it.

"Why? Why has he broken the pattern? Why, John?" Sherlock paced the living room, his hands clenched into fists and he stomped his feet about. John sat in his chair, listening to his partner's frustration.

"I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe he knew that the police were at the hotel and didn't want to get caught," he offered.

"No, that's not it. He wants praise; he would want to outsmart the police. It's something else."

John took a sip of tea, "Has the thought ever crossed your mind that he's doing this because he knows it annoys you?"

Sherlock stopped and spun to face John, "What? This isn't about me, John. It's about the Yard, the police."

John shrugged his shoulders, "Okay, what's the plan?"

"I don't know! What do you think?" Sherlock asked.

John sat silently for a moment before saying, "I think I need to go to the shops, we're out of food. Do you want anything?"

"More petri dishes, and more livers," he mumbled.

"Sherlock I'm going to Tesco, any food?" John sighed.

"No, no no. I'm fine," Sherlock waved his hand. John got up and put on his coat, then left to buy some food from Tesco.

Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa, "Garr!" he yelled to himself. His mind whizzed through a hundred different possibilities, all coming to the same conclusion of nothing. He would have to visit the crime scene again, hopefully the arrogant detective had moved on.

Beep. A text, most likely John forgot his card and was asking Sherlock to bring him it. Sherlock smiled and picked up his phone, John should never do the shopping, but Sherlock certainly wouldn't do it.

**_Stuck?_**

Not John but an unknown number, Sherlock stared at the screen of his phone. He typed back a reply:

**No, not stuck. Thinking. **

**-SH**

Sherlock hit send and waited a few seconds.

**_No, you're stuck. _**

Sherlock didn't move, he guessed the text was from the murderer. He was clever, how did he get his number?

**Where are you? Who are you?**

**-SH**

**_I'm not telling you! _**

**Why? We could meet each other. **

**-SH **

**_If I wanted to meet you, dearie, I would be in your flat already. _**

**Surely you want to meet me?**

**-SH**

**_Don't flatter yourself, Sherlock. _**

Sherlock let the phone fall slack in his hands, he wanted to meet him, catch the killer.

**_Oh look, there's John_****. **

He read the text and froze. Tesco, he was at Tesco. He's watching John.

**Don't touch him. **

Sherlock stood up and put his coat on, he had to go and get John. He would have to call Lestrade and let him know when he was in the taxi.

**_John says hi. _**

His breath caught in his chest.

**_John's handsome isn't he? He doesn't look too handsome with that big bruise around his eye. _**

Sherlock swallowed, and dialled John's number. No reply. He tried again, still no reply.

**_I have his phone, stupid. He can't answer with his hands tied_****. **

Sherlock ran out of his flat and flew down the stairs, and out through the front door. He stood on the street and spun on the spot; there was no taxi in sight.

"Come on, come on!" he growled.

One came driving down the road; he hailed the taxi and jumped in, "Tesco. Don't stop at the lights and I'll pay double."

The driver nodded and pulled out of the street.

**What do you want?**

**-SH**

**_I want YOU Sherlock. But I can't have you. _**

**Why not?**

**-SH**

**_You're tainted, damaged goods. _**

**Where are you?**

**-SH**

**_John's crying, Sherlock. He's calling your name. _**

**I'll find you. **

**-SH**

**_No you won't! _**

**Don't hurt him. Please. **

**_John's in pain, Sherlock. He's screaming your name. Will you save him? _**


	13. Chapter 13

The taxi pulled up outside the shop and stopped; Sherlock threw the money at the driver and jumped out of the vehicle. He had to see if John was still in the store, he had to see if he really had been taken. Sherlock ran through the automatic doors and down the first aisle. It was a Tesco Extra so it wouldn't take long to search the store.

Sherlock dodged shoppers holding baskets and jumped around small children. He spun around the corner of the final aisle and stopped, panting and shaking his head. He reached into his deep pocket and grasped his phone, dialling a number as he walked out of the store.

"Lestrade, he's been taken," Sherlock blew out.

"What? Sherlock what's wrong?"

"John, John. He's taken John. Lestrade help me, please. He went to the store and and and then I received a text from the murderer. He's got John, he's not at the store, help me."

"Alright, are you at the store?"

"Yes please help."

"Okay, stay where you are. I'm on my way," Lestrade hung up.

Sherlock put the phone back in his pocket and ran a hand shakily through his hair, he turned around looking for a car or a van of some sorts where John may be kept. Surprisingly, the car park was empty of any vehicles. Sherlock collapsed onto the pavement by a bush, and watched for a police car to turn into the car park.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled. He jumped out of the car before it had properly stopped and ran over to the detective who was sat on the pavement. Lestrade's car was closely followed by two other police vehicles and a black van. "Tell me what happened."

Sherlock quickly explained the events starting from when John left the flat, and ending with Sherlock at the store. "I've checked, he's not in here. I don't know where he is."

"Is he answering his phone?"

"Of course he's not answering his phone! If he was then I would ask him where he was, wouldn't I?" Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade took a step back from the fuming man, "Alright, calm down."

"How the _hell_ do I calm down? John is gone and none of your incompetent fools know what to do!"

"Hey, we're doing our best mate. But so far we have a man who's disappeared and no leads. Have you received any more texts?" Sherlock checked his phone and shook his head. "Okay, come back to the station and we'll try calling the number. If he replies then we can hopefully track the number and find John." Lestrade escorted Sherlock into the car he had arrived in and jumped into the passenger seat with Sherlock sat in the back. "Don't worry mate, we'll find him."

* * *

Sherlock settled down into one of the chairs, followed by Lestrade and Donovan and two young women. The women took position next to the computers and placed headphones onto their heads. They took Sherlock's phone from the table and hooked it up. Sherlock wasn't really paying attention to what they were doing, he was too busy thinking.

"Right, whilst they are linking your phone up, you need to think about what you'll say," Lestrade addressed Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up from his hands and stared at Donovan, "I thought you were off."

She stared equally back at the detective, "I said that I'd come in. Besides I may not like you, freak, but I do like John and care about him."

Sherlock turned his attention back to Lestrade, "It doesn't matter what I say, as long as I keep him talking and see what he says."

"Yeah well, just be careful about what you're saying. We don't want you to screw up and for him to hang up, do we?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders; he wasn't in a mood to be schooled by Lestrade. Sherlock felt drained of energy, like a piece of him was missing.

One of the women placed the phone back onto the table, "We're ready sir. Keep him talking long enough, and we can hopefully track him."

Lestrade handed the phone to Sherlock, which was attached to a wire. "Ready?"

Sherlock dialled the number and placed the call on speakerphone, so it was loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Hello, he's been expecting you," a thick Welsh accent answered.

Sherlock swallowed, "Who has, your boss?"

"He's right, you are clever!" the man mocked. "My employer has been expecting the call. He says that he knows you have the police with him, and that you're tracking the call."

Sherlock looked over at the two women, who were gesturing for him to carry on. "So why did you answer?"

"I was told to."

"Do you have John?"

"Hear for yourself." There was a muffling on the end of the phone and then a strangled cry, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock jumped up, causing his chair to fly backwards across the room. "John! Where are you? Are you okay?"

"Oh no, that's all you get from him," the Welsh man said and then hung up.

"Shit! Did you get it? Do you know where he is?" Sherlock yelled at the women. They flinched and checked the computer.

"Not very specifically. We know that they are in South London, but the conversation wasn't very long so that's all."

Sherlock slammed a fist down onto the table, Donovan and Lestrade flinched, and Lestrade stood up. He turned to face the two women, "Is there anywhere he could be kept? Warehouses, factories?"

"We don't know sir."

"Well look. That's our next move, search anywhere he could be kept. Sherlock, are you okay mate?"

For Sherlock was shaking with anger, his face was pale and his fists were clenched. "Am I okay? Do I look okay? John is missing somewhere in London, and we can't locate him. But that's forgetting the fact that they may move him, or fucking kill him!" the detective roared.

"Sir, there are five factories and three warehouses in the area," one of the women burst out.

"Good, thank you. Donovan, get every who's free and can be spared in here, now." Donovan nodded and stood up, jogging out of the room to round up the officers. "We'll split into two teams, searching for him," he informed Sherlock.

Donovan returned five minutes later, flanked by twenty officers. "Here sir. Some people were doing paperwork, others have to stop the case they're working on, but they all say that they can manage it."

Lestrade nodded, "Everyone get in the room." He gestured for them to surround the table. "Here's the plan, a man has been taken and is being kept somewhere in south London. We are going to search three warehouses and five factories. We'll split into two teams, one lead by me and the other by Donovan. We're looking for John Watson, I'm sure you all know what he looks like. Be armed, and be prepared for the captors to be armed too. Any questions?"

Everyone in the room shook their heads, "Great. Grab a vest and bring your guns." Lestrade pointed at a group of people, "You ten are with me. The rest with Donovan." Everyone nodded and left the room, leaving only Donovan, Sherlock, Lestrade and the two women.

"Sir, here's the addresses," the blonde thrust a piece of paper into the DI's hands.

"Thanks, here." Lestrade gave Donovan the piece of paper for the warehouses. "Are you confident doing this?"

"I'll be fine, thanks." She accepted the paper and left to gather her team and go.

"Sherlock, you can come with me," he said. Sherlock nodded and followed Lestrade out of the room.

Sherlock walked behind the DI, nervously wringing his hands. He received a text and both he and Lestrade stopped. "Read it," Lestrade told him.

Sherlock got out his phone and showed Lestrade.

**_Happy hunting, Sherlock! x_**


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock slid out of the vehicle and stared at the crumbling factories before him. The windows were smashed by bricks thrown by vandals, and the walls were spray painted with swear words and graffiti. Lestrade walked around the car and stood next to Sherlock. Immediately, ten officers stood in front of the men, ready and waiting for command.

"Right, here's what's going to happen. There are five factories, and ten of us. Split into twos, I want you all on radio comms, I want updates every five minutes. We're on line two. Make sure you're wearing vest and have your guns, be prepared to use them. Search the whole place twice, if we have nothing then we leave and head back to the station. If any shots are fired, call in on comms. Okay?"

There was a chorus of "Yes Sirs" and nodding heads. The group split up into twos and each entered a factory.

Lestrade chucked a bullet proof vest at the sociopath who strapped himself in. "Lestrade, what if he's not here?" Sherlock whispered. His face was pale and his eyes were wide, Lestrade could tell that he was scared.

"Then we hope that Donovan finds him. Then we'll see what happens from there, don't worry. He'll be okay," he soothed. Sherlock nodded and withdrew his gun from behind him; Lestrade already had his out, and pointed it at the floor ahead of him. He took the lead and entered the factory, followed by Sherlock and two other police officers.

"Alright, you lot, gather round. There are three warehouses and eleven of us, so split into a group of three and two groups of four. I want all of you on the radios, line six. I want updates every five minutes, if shots are fired or if you need back-up radio in and we'll arrive as soon as we can okay? Any questions?" Donovan yelled. She was strapping herself into a vest and double checked her gun.

The officers shook their heads and split into the groups, they left the car park to head into the warehouses. Donovan watched them all leave, before turning back to her group and gesturing for them to enter the warehouse.

Sherlock's feet padded softly on the concrete floor, the smell of damp and mildew hung in the musty air. Sherlock wanted to cough or say something, but he knew that any sound would endanger the mission. The two officers had taken the back entrance to the factory and then proceeded to check the higher floor.

Sherlock and Lestrade jogged side by side with each other down the dirty hall. Sherlock guessed that this used to be the entrance to the factory, so any minute now the hall would widen into a large room.

As Sherlock thought this, the hallway began to open up, therefore Sherlock and Lestrade slowed their pace to a soft walk. The high beams of light were dulling with every minute, Sherlock craved for the light that he knew he would not receive.

Lestrade stopped suddenly, and held up his gun. Sherlock, who had continued to walk, turned back to look at Lestrade, "Why did you stop?" Sherlock mouthed to the DI.

Lestrade walked up to Sherlock and leant up to whisper in the detective's ear, "I have been on more stake-outs before, so please listen to me. They may be keeping John in the room, so get your gun out!"

Sherlock mimicked the DI and held his gun out in front of him, Lestrade gestured with his head for the two of them to enter the room silently. The men slid into the room, hiding in the protecting shadows.

The room was large, it was clear from any machinery, and most importantly, it was empty. Sherlock and Lestrade sighed, John wasn't down here. A voice sounded from the radio strapped to Lestrade's waist, "Sir, come in. sir?"

Lestrade answered the radio call, "Higgins? Have you got anything?" Higgins was one of the members of the group up on the higher level of the factory.

"Nothing sir, just a large room. No sign of any men. Shall we come back down?"

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Sure, there's nothing down here too. Just a large room. Let's hope the others have found something."

"Sergeant, we have nothing," came a quiet voice. Everyone in the group jumped upon hearing it and raised their guns, before realising it came from the radio.

"Okay, have you thoroughly checked?" she asked.

"Yes Sergeant. What should we do now?"

"Divide your group, half enter one factory and the other half enter the other."

"Yes Sergeant."

Donovan and her team had split up in the factory; Donovan and a short man were checking the hallway. They both turned into empty rooms, no sign of any men or any life at all. The rooms were bare; spare the few crates and tables that remained. Donovan pulled out her phone to check for any signal, nothing. She didn't think she would have one when she was surrounded by this many concrete walls.

"Sir! Sir!" came a quiet yet desperate voice. Lestrade, Sherlock and the two officers were standing outside of their factory. After checking twice, they concluded that John wasn't in this factory and that they should start checking another one. They had just returned to the bright outside, and Sherlock was gasping for clean air, when the little voice sounded from the radio.

"Jones, what is it?" Lestrade's voice peaked up in anticipation.

"We can hear voices sir. In the final factory, enter through the back door and it leads to a basement. What shall we do?"

Sherlock and Lestrade looked at each other with hope, and started to sprint towards the factory. "Alright, don't move, we're on our way. We'll be five minutes okay? Don't approach the voices," he yelled into the radio.

Sherlock panted as he ran around the factory, he prayed to some unknown god that John would be there and that he would be safe. Lestrade ran next to him, he too hoped that John would be safe. They reached the back entrance and Sherlock ripped the crumbling door of the wall and burst through the entrance. Lestrade grabbed hold off Sherlock's coat and dragged him back, choking the tall man.

"What do you think you're doing?" hissed Lestrade. They stood on the top of the staircase that would lead down into the basement.

"I'm going to get John," Sherlock stated obviously.

"We could be dealing with a hostage situation here, and you barging in could get someone killed," scolded Lestrade. Sherlock frowned but nodded at the DI and walked quietly down the stairs, being followed by the two officers.

"Anything?" asked Donovan. All officers had left the warehouses to regroup in the car park outside. They all shook their heads; none of them had found John. Donovan sighed and whipped out her phone, sending a short text to Lestrade to let him know. Hopefully he would receive it. "Alright, well done though. Every back in the vans and we'll head to the station until we learn more."

The officers nodded and jumped back into the vans, hopeful that the team searching the factories wouldn't be as unsuccessful as them.

Sherlock and Lestrade stood by the doorway; they had met the two female officers and had been informed of the scenario. The women hadn't entered the room where they could hear the voices, but remained outside the door. Lestrade had sent the men back to the surface to request back up from the other officers, but told them to remain on the surface until they are called.

Lestrade leant into Sherlock's ear so close that his lips brushed the detective's soft curls, "I need you to look into the room and identify that John is in there. Okay?" Sherlock nodded and inhaled deeply, everyone stepped back from the man as they watched his head peer around the door way and into the room.

The sight that met Sherlock's eyes was so horrifying that it would haunt him for the rest of his life. John Watson leant against the wall, his hands tied behind his back and his feet bound too. A large gash was open on his head, and oozed thick blood. His one eye was swollen shut, and a deep shade of purple. His face was covered in dirt, as were his arms which were exposed and displaying several cuts. His body sagged against the wall, he looked lifeless and limp. The only reason that Sherlock knew he was still conscious was due to the small moans that escaped his bleeding lips. He was surrounded in a pool of congealed blood, and dirt. His leg hung out at an awkward angle, probably broken.

Sherlock's eyes widen in fear and disgust, he was going to make the men pay for what they did. Six men surrounded the injured. All wore dark suits, however their jackets were off and their sleeves were rolled up. "Let's have some fun, shall we?" a bald man asked. His accent immediately identified with Sherlock and he knew that that was the Welsh man who he had spoken with on the phone.

Sherlock ducked out of the room and turned to face Lestrade, he was unable to speak. He nodded his head, a conformation that John was in there. Sherlock finally managed to croak out, "There are six men, and they all have guns. John needs an ambulance."

Lestrade nodded to one of the women who ran up the stairs to tell the officers waiting outside, before heading back down to the basement. "Sherlock, you go check on John. We will deal with the men."

Sherlock shook his head firmly, "No. I want to make them pay for what they did."

Lestrade could see the fire in Sherlock's eyes and therefore didn't bother to argue with him. "Fine, Jones you can check John. Don't try to unfree him; we don't know what his condition is. Just check he's breathing. First Sherlock and I will go in, we'll try to get as close as we can to the men. Give us ten seconds and then you do the same. I will give a warning shot and ask them to surrender; if they don't then we fire. Got it?" he whispered fiercely. Everyone nodded.

Lestrade and Sherlock slipped into the dark room, this time Sherlock was grateful that all light was focused on John, as was the men's attention. Sherlock imitated Lestrade and hugged the wall, relying on the shadows to conceal their presence.

Three.

They edged their way closer to the men, always avoiding any glass bottles or rubbish on the floor.

Seven.

Sherlock and Lestrade held out their guns, aiming them at the men in front of them. They remained in the safety of the shadows.

Ten.

They watched as the women entered the room silently, with an ease that only came from practice. They were not long before they had reached where Sherlock and Lestrade stood hidden.

Lestrade nodded and stepped out of the shadows and fired a warning shot into the stack of crates to the side. The sound of the gun shot rang about the room. The men spun around and raised their guns at Lestrade. "Put your weapons on the floor and step away from them. Now!" he ordered.

The men laughed, "Why should we listen to you? What's stopping us from killing you?" one of the men asked.

The Welsh man pointed his gun directly at Lestrade and was about to press the trigger, but someone else pulled theirs first. The Welsh man staggered back and fell to the floor, the bullet wound directly in his chest. Sherlock stepped out of the shadows, his gun now trained on the other men. "John?" he called out.

He didn't respond. The officers stepped out of the shadows too, causing one of the men to fire at one of them. Luckily, he missed and the bullet embedded itself in the wall. Lestrade fired twice at the man; he too collapsed onto the floor; his pool of blood mixing in with his colleague's.

It was now four against four, an even battle. "Unless you want to end up like those two then put down your weapons and step away from them," Lestrade commanded. The men slowly obliged, dropping their weapons and raising their hands. The police officers walked over and handcuffed the men.

Sherlock ignored what was going on and ran over to John, kneeling down beside him and untying the bonds from his frail body. "John? Can you hear me?" Sherlock asked desperately. "Please tell me you're okay?" his voice cracked on the end of the question.

"You're late," moaned John, before slipping into unconsciousness.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock clutched his partner's hand protectively, never letting go. He ignored the bustle that was going on around him; he only focused on the man in the bed.

John was in hospital; after the men had surrendered John had fallen unconscious and was taken to the hospital immediately. It turned out that John had a fractured skull, deep lacerations to his arm, a broken leg and several broken ribs. Sherlock had been unable to see him for several hours as he was taken into care. He just paced outside the waiting room until John was well enough to be seen.

Finally, the staff left bar one, who stood by the door way and coughed at Sherlock. "Mr Holmes?" she asked softly. Sherlock looked up at the nurse, "Mr Holmes I'm afraid your partners condition is quite serve, but he will be fine. As long as his cuts do not become infected, he'll be back home soon. He should be awake in a few hours." Sherlock nodded a dismissal and she left the room, leaving only Sherlock at the side of John.

Sherlock blinked back tears that were clouding his vision, "John. I'm so sorry John. This is what it must have been like, when I left. I'm so sorry John, but please be okay, I need you." Sherlock tightened his grip on John's pale hand, as if he would slip away from him at any given moment.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked. He had just arrived at the hospital and knocked on John's door. He had two cups of coffee with him for himself and Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade and accepted the warm cup, an improvement compared to what he had been drinking for the past few days, "Still asleep. He wakes up every so often but is unable to communicate as he is on heavy painkillers."

Lestrade nodded and took the seat by the table. The room was quite large, with a small round table by the window and several comfy seats, one of which had been dragged next to the bed and was occupied by Sherlock. The walls were bare, spare the few pictures of plants that were hung neatly. The bed sheet was thin yet of a high quality. Mycroft's money got you the best.

"And how are you?" asked Lestrade. He took a sip of the hot liquid and frowned as it burnt his taste buds.

Sherlock frowned too, "Me? I am fine, Lestrade. Why would I not be?"

He smiled sympathetically, "Because I know how hard it can be to see a loved one in pain, but being unable to help. And I also know that you haven't left this hospital in three days Sherlock."

Sherlock brushed off his concern, "That's because I don't want to leave John on his own. He needs me."

Lestrade shook his head, "Not right now he doesn't, what he needs is his own pyjamas and some of his stuff from home. If he's going to be in here for a while, he will need his own stuff. If you go back to Baker Street and get it, I can watch John." Sherlock didn't reply immediately, it was perfectly sound logic. Sherlock could return home to shower and retrieve John's personal items. He knew that he would be in capable hands with Lestrade, yet Sherlock didn't want to leave. Lestrade could sense Sherlock's unease, "Trust me. You won't be gone for more than a few hours, and if anything happens I will call you immediately."

Sherlock nodded and gave John's hand a tight squeeze, before standing up and wrapping himself in his coat. He started to leave the room, but turned back to look at Lestrade who had occupied the seat next to John. "You will call?"

"Of course I will, mate."

Sherlock nodded and left the room, shutting the door with a soft click. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he was grateful to be going back to Baker Street. Whereas Sherlock loved John and would happily watch over him, the boredom was starting to become unbearable. There were only so many nurses you could deduce before they started to become agitated.

Sherlock opened the door to 221B and slid through quietly, he wasn't in the mood to be ambushed by Mrs Hudson. He was fine with people visiting John, (Molly, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade,) yet they realised that by being there they were more of a hindrance than a help to Sherlock. He quickly ran up the stairs noiselessly, with the agility of a cat.

He opened the door and stopped; whilst he had been away Mrs Hudson had been cleaning. Sherlock would have to have words with her, this could not continue. Sherlock ignored the impulse to rearrange the items in the living room and walked into his bedroom, where he grabbed a large bag from under his bed and chucked it onto the bed. He quickly filled it with John's jumpers and pyjamas, knowing that once John had awoken he would be pleased with this. Next, Sherlock would have to pack his own clothes and shower. The sociopath needed a shower.

Sherlock burst into the doorway panting and holding the over-night bag. He chucked it in the corner of the room and walked up to John, "Are you okay?" he demanded.

John smiled, "I'm awake," he croaked out. His head was heavily bandaged, hiding the numerous amount of stitches. His arms were bandaged too; finally they had stopped bleeding and were healing. His leg was in a cast, and his ribs were strapped up.

Sherlock clutched his hand, "Are you okay? Do you need more painkillers?"

John laughed which soon turned into a heavy cough, "I'm fine Sherlock. Thank you for bringing my stuff, but what I need is for you to relax. Why is your hair wet?"

Sherlock touched his damp hair and shrugged, "I was in the shower when Lestrade texted me, so I left straight away. I have your clothes if you want to get changed."

"Not with Lestrade watching," John frowned.

Lestrade jumped up from his chair, "I'll be leaving now, anyway. When you're feeling better I'm going to have to ask you a few questions about what happened. Get better soon, mate." Lestrade patted John on his undamaged leg and left the room, leaving only Sherlock and John.

Sherlock walked to the corner of the room where he threw the bag and retrieved it, placing it on the bed next to John. "Do you want to be in your pyjamas?"

"Yes, I might as well be, being that I'll be staying her for a while." Sherlock opened the bag and took out a pair of striped pyjama bottoms and a matching grey shirt. The blinds to the window were already drawn, so Sherlock looked at John awkwardly.

"Do you need me to help?" Sherlock asked.

John looked down at himself, "I don't want you to but I think I may need you to."

Sherlock burst out laughing and John joined in too, "How are we going to do this?"

John shrugged his shoulders, "I don't know. Can we start with my shirt first?"

Sherlock nodded, "You're in a hospital gown, so you're going to have to remove it. I suggest you then cover yourself with the sheet."

John blushed, "What if someone walks in?"

"They won't. I told them not to unless I call them."

John sighed but obliged, pulling the thin sheet up to his chin, he could still use his hands after all. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, but watched him struggle to remove the gown for five minutes, before he was successfully out of it.

"Now please help me into my clothes, it's bloody freezing and I'm wearing nothing but my boxers."

Sherlock didn't help John, "No, I may just keep you in your boxers," he smiled wickedly.

"Sherlock," John growled. Sherlock sighed and pulled the blanket down to John's waist and helped him into his shirt. This process didn't take as long as he thought, he was lucky that Sherlock brought loose pyjamas as the strap John was wearing on his ribs was rather thick.

Now for the tricky part, Sherlock was about to pull down the sheet for John when he stopped him. "Wait, I have a plaster cast on my leg, the trousers won't go over." Sherlock looked at the pyjama bottoms he held in his hand, before he bit the fabric with his teeth and ripped them open. "Woah! What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" John yelled.

"Well if I take off the leg of the trousers then you can wear them. I've ripped it down the side so you can still wear them but with a slit."

"You're lucky that they're the trousers that Harry got me," he scowled.

Sherlock smiled and pulled the sheet off of John; he didn't help his partner into the sheet right away but stared at the sight. John hit him on his head, and Sherlock helped John sit up with his legs dangling off the side of the bed. "If you stand up, then you can lean on me and I can put them on you."

"This is ridiculous," John muttered, but inhaled sharply and stood up resting on his only good leg. Sherlock navigated John's broken leg through the pyjama leg with ease, careful not to knock the leg. John sat back onto the bed; therefore he wouldn't have to rest on his injured leg. Sherlock helped John into his other side of the pyjamas and smiled in victory.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," John said, straightening out his sheet.

Sherlock leant forward and kissed John on his lips, his tongue slowly slipping into his mouth. "I'm glad you're okay," he mouthed against John's lips.

John kissed him back, "Of course, I'd never leave you."

Sherlock smiled and sat back down into the chair next to John. John yawned and his eyes began to droop, "Go to sleep, you shouldn't strain yourself. I'm right here."

John nodded, barely able to resist the temptation of a peaceful night.

Sherlock's phone beeped, probably from Mycroft pestering the pair.

**_I'm so glad that John is okay. I was really worried. _**

Not Mycroft, but the unknown number.

**I will find you.**

**-SH**

**_No need to, I'm at the hospital. _**

"Everything okay, Sherlock?" John yawned, noticing Sherlock's frown.

"Fine, everything is fine," he said, staring at the message.


	16. Chapter 16

**Hope you like it, a short chapter. all reviews wanted and welcome!**

**Mrs H**

**x**

* * *

Sherlock looked over at the man sleeping in the bed, Sherlock knew he wouldn't wake for several hours. He debated whether or not he had the time, whether John would wake up and discover Sherlock's absence and worry. He texted Lestrade quickly,

**Are you busy?**

**-SH**

If Lestrade was able to stay with John, then Sherlock would be free to leave.

**Not really, do you need my help?**

**Could you come to the hospital and remain with John? I need to go somewhere and I don't want him to be alone.**

**-SH**

**Sure. Will be over in ten minutes. **

* * *

Lestrade knocked on the door softly and entered, careful not to disturb the sleeping man. He took of his coat and sat down at the table, "Is everything okay?"

Sherlock nodded, "I just need to do something. Will you be okay here?"

"Fine, I need to work on some things for a case, are you sure everything is alright?" Lestrade frowned. Clearly he was concerned for the detective, who usually wouldn't have left John's side at all.

"Fine, thank you." Sherlock stood and wrapped himself in his coat, holding his phone in his gloved hands. He took one last fleeting look at John and left the room, walking down the hospital corridor and into the lift.

**Where are you?**

**-SH**

**_I'm where it all started, Sherlock. Come and play. _**

The warehouse- where the first murders were. Sherlock watched the lift open and he strode out of the waiting room and left the hospital.

* * *

The taxi pulled up and Sherlock paid the man, before jumping out and watching the taxi drive away quickly. Sherlock didn't blame him, the abandoned factory had an ominous feeling that even made Sherlock want to leave. But he knew he couldn't, he knew that he would have to find the man. He walked up to the warehouse and around the corner, heading for the place where the first five were killed. The sociopath stopped to survey the area, watching for any signs of life. The warehouse was dead, nothing but the pigeons that dotted about the scene.

Sherlock wondered if he should enter the warehouse, after all, he was only stood at the side of it. He peered through the large hole in the side of the wall. It was large enough for a man to walk through, but Sherlock was hesitant. He tried to scope the scene inside but it was too dark, the only light source came from the outside, which was dimming as the evening grew on.

He got out his phone to text the murderer, but it appeared that he already had one from him.

**_Don't be shy, I don't bite….. much. _**

**Where are you?**

**-SH**

**_I can see you! _**

**Talk to me.**

**-SH**

"If you insist! How's John?" an eerie voice came from behind Sherlock. The detective froze, the hairs on the back of his neck rose and a chill went down his spine, he knew that voice.

He turned around, expecting to see the face of his tormentor but was instead greeted but nothing. "Where are you?" Sherlock hissed.

"I'm watching you, Sherlock. I always have been," he whispered.

Sherlock turned on the spot, trying to locate the source of the voice. "Show yourself."

A dark figure stepped out of the shadows of the warehouse, and into the moonlight. "Hello Sherlock, did you miss me?"

Sherlock spun to face the man in the suit and smiled wickedly, "Of course. Although, I thought you were dead. "

"And I thought you were dead, Sherlock! It seems we both cheated each other. I wasn't very happy when I found out you were alive, I almost killed everyone properly. Even your little friend Molly, it seems I missed her out last time. She's nice, I _like_ her. It's a shame our relationship didn't work out."

Sherlock smiled, "Yes, although it was probably for the best," he joked.

Moriarty smiled back at him. He wore a black suit that was the same shade as his cold eyes. His hair was combed back as it usually was; and he chewed a piece of gum and whistled as he looked at the man. He circled Sherlock slowly, like a predator prowling around its prey.

"It was you, all of it was you?" Sherlock asked.

Moriarty chucked, "Yes, I suppose that was slightly confusing!"

"And the 'A' the notes were signed with?" the detective demanded to know.

"I always thought of myself as your admirer," the psychopath sang.

"You did this all for me?"

"Ooh, Mr Modest. Don't flatter yourself," Moriarty winked.

"Then why?" Sherlock raised his chin.

Moriarty pouted, "A clever man like you should know, especially you." He mocked the detective, who didn't respond. "I was _bored_, Sherlock. It happens, you know."

The detective scowled at the man, "You were bored? Innocent people have died."

Moriarty shook his head in mock annoyance, "How many times do I have to tell you?... That's what people DO!" he roared.

"Why did you target John?" Sherlock demanded, his blood was beginning to boil. Moriarty had stopped circling Sherlock and stood directly in front of him. This made it easier to deduce Moriarty; although that was a task he didn't usually find easy. Moriarty didn't carry a gun with him, but who was to say that several weren't pointed at Sherlock anyway? He also didn't have any weapon on him, or anything that could be used as a weapon. He hadn't been waiting here long as his shoes were clean, a sign that he hadn't walked here neither. No doubt a car was waiting for him not far from here.

"Ooh, that was when I was really bored. I knew that you were bored too, surely that added some excitement to your mundane life?"

Sherlock shook his head, "They can still get you, the police. All we have to do is ask the men who had John and I'm sure they would give your name up willingly."

"You really do bore me sometimes; you want everything to be so easy." Moriarty shook his head, "They won't find me, they don't know who I am. Do you think I allowed myself to be associated with them? Everything was carried out through a third party, the men don't even know I exist," he said plainly.

"But they do know the middle man, we can find him and then find you," Sherlock said.

Moriarty cocked his head to the side, "You can try, but I don't think you'll be able to find him. He's seemed to have…. disappeared."

Sherlock swallowed, Moriarty was right, there wasn't a connection anymore. "Are you going to kill me?"

The psychopath chuckled, "Well we both know what happened last time, don't we? I died, you died, yet here we both are! The survivors," he whispered.

"So what now?" Sherlock asked.


	17. Chapter 17

Moriarty shrugged his shoulders, and resumed his circling around Sherlock. "You tell me, you're supposed to be the genius. What now…" he mumbled to himself. "I could kill you, you could kill me, we could both kill each other, we can both leave and pretend this didn't happen, you can leave and tell Lestrade _all about it_, like the good little detective you are?"

Sherlock ran over the possibilities on his head. He could shoot Moriarty, (he had a gun tucked behind his shirt) but that would result in his own death and Sherlock wasn't ready to die yet. He could leave, pretend that this meeting didn't happen. "Will there be more?" Sherlock asked.

"More deaths you mean? Obviously. Not for a while though, I have to take a business trip to somewhere sunny. Probably no more like these ones, now that you've caught the killers. Well done, by the way." Moriarty smiled. "But yes there will be more, there always will be. I get bored Sherlock, as do you. Although you have John to keep you company, I may get myself one. What is it your brother calls them, ah yes, _goldfish._"

Sherlock scoffed, "Why don't you just kill me?"

Moriarty continued to pace the detective, "Because you are my entertainment. If I've got you," he began to sing.

"What do you want to do? No phone call to help you escape this time," Sherlock interrupted.

"Well you can call the police, but that would be pointless. Remember what happened last time? Anything I am arrested for, I can be freed within hours. And what will you arrest me for anyway? I am as innocent as you are, Sherlock." The psychopath grinned and stopped his prowl, staring intently into Sherlock's eyes.

"I'll make sure that one day you are caught, and that you are stopped," Sherlock growled.

Moriarty rolled his eyes, "Are we done with the heroics? You really are boring me Sherlock; I think I've had enough now."

Suddenly a sharp pain hit Sherlock in his shoulder, he turned his head to see the small dart embedded in his muscle and sticking out through his jacket. His head began to spin and pound, "You drugged me?" he slurred.

"Well, yes. How else was I supposed to leave without you chasing after me?" Moriarty laughed and began to walk away. "Till next time, Sherlock Holmes. Give John my love."

Sherlock fell to the floor, unable to move any of his limbs, "John" he groaned before his world went black.

* * *

"Sherlock? Are you okay? Sherlock?" someone was slapping him on his face and yelling in his ear. _Why are they doing that? Idiot. I'm awake, I can hear them. _"Sherlock!"

"What?" he yelled angrily.

"Bloody hell mate, I thought you were dead. Can you stand?" Sherlock was aware of someone grabbing him from under his arms and attempting him to stand up. "Jesus, go bring the car around, we can lay him in the back."

* * *

"Sherlock! What wrong with him?" _a loud voice, concerned, urgency._

"I don't know mate, I think he may have been drugged. We tracked his phone and found him at the crime scene passed out. We thought we could bring him here and let him sleep it off in one of the chairs." _A tired voice, one that was slightly annoyed._

"Jesus, why is he drugged?"

"No clue, I guess we'll have to ask him when he wakes up."

Someone was dragging Sherlock into a room that smelt of bleach. Sherlock could fell the cushion under him dent as he was placed onto it.

"Let me help you."

"You have a broken leg, stay where you are."

"I'm sorry about this."

"It's fine, Is it okay if I stay here until he wakes up? I can ask you a few questions until then."

"Sure, be my guest. And you?"

"If it is okay, I would like to ask my brother a few questions of my own," _new voice, disappointment, snobbish. _

* * *

"Good evening, sunshine. How are you?" a large voice thundered in Sherlock's ears and pounded in his brain.

Sherlock's eyes dragged open and were thankfully greeted by a dim room. He surveyed his areas and found that he was in the hospital, John's room to be more precise. He was sat in one of the large chairs in the corner, John was in the bed and Mycroft stood in the corner by the door. Lestrade's head obscured most of Sherlock's vision for he had his face very close to Sherlock's.

"Tea," Sherlock demanded. A hot cup was thrust into his hands by Lestrade.

"What did I tell you? I knew he would want some," John announced from his bed. Sherlock looked over at John and grinned.

"How do you feel?" he groaned.

"Me? I'm fine; I've been lying in this bed. I'm not the one who was off to fight some narcissistic criminal!" John yelled.

"You know?"

"Of course we bloody know, I went through your phone once John called me," Mycroft spoke up from the corner.

"You phoned him?" Sherlock directed this question at John.

"Of course he bloody did," Mycroft replied.

"Sherlock, what happened to you?" John asked. Sherlock could tell that he had been worried about his partner whilst Sherlock had been sleeping.

Sherlock stared at John, knowing the reaction that would occur due to what he was about to say. "Moriarty is back."

John inhaled sharply and his back stiffened, Sherlock could see from the corner of his eye that Mycroft got his phone out and proceeded to call someone. Behind him, Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply.

"He drugged you?" John asked, visibly angered by the news.

"Yes, he did. He needed to get away."

"Well, are you going to tell us what happened?" Mycroft had ended his silent phone call and stared at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock winced at the thudding in his head, "When John fell back asleep, I received another text from the murderer."

"Another?" burst out John. "You didn't tell me he was texting you! How long has this been happening?"

"Call down; they started when you were taken. I hadn't received any in a while, but then he text me saying he wanted to meet me. So I asked Lestrade to remain with you whilst you slept, and I returned to the crime scene of the first five victims. Moriarty was waiting for me, he told me how he ordered the murders to be carried out, and your kidnapping because he was _bored._ He established how the police wouldn't find him because the men who took you had no communication with Moriarty, and that everything had been carried out through a third person who I presume is dead. We were at a stalemate; I knew that if I killed him I too would be shot. And yet he didn't kill me because I entertain him. He needed to get away without me following him or calling someone, so he had me darted and therefore drugged. You won't be able to find him, Mycroft, he has a job 'somewhere sunny' and I honestly believe you couldn't find him unless he wanted you to." Sherlock finished his monologue and took in his companions reactions. Mycroft had started to become stressed, and Sherlock could tell he was about to leave to inform some higher intelligence of the news. Lestrade was disappointed that the true evil behind the crimes wouldn't be caught, and that he had no way of catching him. John had turned into the soldier, something he always did when he was angry and mentally preparing himself for a fight.

"You went to the crime scene to meet Moriarty without me? Without any help?" hissed John.

Lestrade stood up, sensing the argument that was about to happen. "I need to go to the station to report this. Sherlock, I'm going to need a statement from you on Monday." He nodded to the men, and turned to look at Mycroft. "I'll see you later, yes?" Mycroft nodded and kissed Lestrade on the cheek. Sherlock who was visibly repulsed by this, decided to look out the window into the darkening night.

Lestrade left the room, leaving Mycroft, Sherlock and John. "I need to go and report this, and see if we can still track Moriarty. Goodnight," he bid the men farewell and left the room.

John still stared angrily at Sherlock. Who tried to avoid John's eye contact as much as possible. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock knew that they were going to have this argument and knew that he would have to face it, "I didn't want to worry you."

"Worry me? Jesus Sherlock, I don't want to lose you again! You could have been killed, and yet you decided to go and have tea with a murderer unprepared!"

"John I'm sorry, but I don't see how telling you would have made a difference! You can't leave the hospital, you are physically unable to do anything. I still would have gone anyway."

"You," John said, "Are an impossible man. Do you know that?"

Sherlock got out of his chair, and staggered his way to John's bed. He had to lean heavily on it in fear of falling over. "Yes, I'm sorry." He kissed John on his head and swayed back over to his chair, where he closed his eyes and fell into a heavy and much needed sleep.


	18. Epilogue

_Three months later. _

Mycroft sat down onto the sofa gracefully and smiled at the pair in the chairs, he leant his black umbrella next to him and folded his large hands on his lap.

Sherlock watched him intently; curious as to why his brother was at his home. Sherlock placed his hands together in a steeple, and rested his chin upon his fingers. He was very aware as to the man that was uncomfortably shuffling in his chair opposite him.

John Watson lifted up his left leg and moved it over to the right slightly, it was concealed by a black support that he had been wearing for a few weeks now. He was glad that his ribs were no longer strapped up, yet his arms still displayed the scars of his deadly torture. He had been using his old cane that he had after his return from the army, in order to support himself as he walked. It leant next to him on his chair, John hated the thing yet Sherlock insisted he used it.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded quietly. He removed his hands from under his chin and rested them on his lap.

Mycroft glared at the tall man, "I am here to discuss the situation that occurred several months ago," he said discretely.

"You mean my kidnapping and torture?" John said bluntly. "It is what it is."

Sherlock smiled at his partner for his bravery, knowing that at night John still suffered nightmares from his experience.

"Yes, I see. I am here to discuss the matter of Mr Moriarty," Mycroft explained.

"Moriarty?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, it seems that we were unable to find him, yet…"

"As I predicted Mycroft, you were unable to find him. If he doesn't want to be found, then he will not be. He is far more intelligent and skilled than your various secret government organisations," Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Yes, I am aware little brother. However, something that you nor I didn't anticipate was that Moriarty would contact us."

Sherlock and John leant forward in their chairs simultaneously, Sherlock steepled his hands and John rolled back his shoulders. "Go on," Sherlock commanded.

Mycroft sneered, "Yes. A letter was found in my office by my secretary, we had to test it for any signs of explosives or threats but after numerous examinations, it appears that all is in order."

Sherlock stood up, "Yes of course it wasn't a bomb, if he wanted to kill you he certainly wouldn't do it using a bomb in a letter." Sherlock scoffed, "I trust you have it with you?"

The government official scowled at the impatient detective and he too stood up. He reached into his expensive suit jacket and retrieved a small plastic pocket containing a letter. He handed it over to his brother, who snatched it from his hands. John looked at the two men and frowned; he leant heavily on his cane and grunted as he hoisted himself up off the chair. Sherlock cocked his head slightly and looked sympathetically at his friend, who lifted his chin confrontationally. John didn't appreciate being pitied.

Sherlock looked back at the evidence bag he held in his hands and opened it. He removed the cream envelope and turned it on its back. "You didn't open it?"

"No, I decided to wait for the two of you. After all, the letter isn't addressed to only me."

Sherlock looked back at the writing painted on the front; it was indeed addressed to him too.

_**The Wonderful Mr S Holmes, his pet and his brother.**_

Sherlock smiled at the description and turned the letter back over, ignoring the grumble of John's annoyance at the term _pet_. He stared at the red seal of two birds, and broke the waxy emblem. He pulled out the letter and threw the envelope onto his chair, unfolding the small piece of paper and holding it out in front of him for the other two men to see.

_**Dear Mr S Holmes, Mr J Watson, and Mr M Holmes,**_

_**It has been a pleasuring playing with you, I really had fun! It's such a shame that I couldn't stay in the country any longer, but duty calls. I will however be seeing more of you soon, especially you Sherlock. I hope you're feeling better John, what happened to you was terrible. **_

_**With all my love,**_

_**J Moriarty. **_

_**x **_

Mycroft raised his head and looked at the pair, "Well, now that's sorted I shall be going."

Sherlock waved his hand at his brother, who scowled at Sherlock's poor hosting skills and picked up his umbrella. He strolled out of the apartment without saying goodbye to either of the men and down the stairs, leaving Baker Street.

John sighed and collapsed back down into his chair, grateful for the fact that he didn't have to pretend no longer. He rubbed his aching leg, needing to take his medication as soon as possible. Sherlock quickly walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboard where he kept John's medication. He entered the living room and gave the bottle of small pills to John, who attempted to smile gratefully, yet he was in such extreme pain that it came out as a grimace. He popped the lid off the bottle and took out two small white pills, and swallowed them dry. He placed the pills in his pocket and looked at Sherlock who was once again occupying his chair. "Thanks, what do you think of the letter then?"

Sherlock ran his long fingers against the cool of the paper, and shrugged his shoulders. "Moriarty clearly is back in the country."

"And? He wants to get at you again," said he.

Sherlock bit his lip, "I need a case."

John rolled his eyes, "You just solved one yesterday!"

"I need a new one! Or my cigarettes, where are my cigarettes?" Sherlock leapt off his chair and began to shift the books and skull on the fireplace, lifting up items and checking for his pack.

"Give it a rest, I'm not telling you. You've been doing really well lately, three months is a lot to give up."

"I don't care! I need to smoke!" Sherlock yelled. His phone binged from the arm of his chair, he yelled frustratingly and picked it up.

_**They're under the King James Bible. x**_

Sherlock peered at the text message and slowly walked over to his book shelf, he pulled out the large bible and behind sat the pack of cigarettes. "Oh."

"How the bloody hell did you know they were they?" spat John. __

Sherlock's eyes widened, "I… observed. I could tell they were behind it because it was sticking out slightly more than usual." The lie rolled of his tongue naturally, and he knew that John would believe him. John scoffed and picked up his book from the floor, Sherlock walked into the kitchen and took out a pack of matches. He struck one and lit the cigarette, sauntering back into the living room and sitting down in his chair, and returning the phone back to the arm.

**Thank you to everyone who followed and reviewed the story. It really means a lot. And thank you to everyone who has read all the way to the end!**

**Mrs H**

**x**


End file.
